[open] though rapt in the ruin; any

[breach]

for so long had my teeth held my tongue from a venomous voice
but the poison has passed from my lips to my hands, an incendiary point

She is different than she was.

She is wild still, as her mother had raised her to be, but death changed her. The first time, when she stared it down while Ghaul tore her limb from limb. The second time, when the war sent a cliff tumbling down on top of her and saltwater had flooded her lungs. And then the third time. When she had ripped it from the throat of Mesec, leaving him on death’s doorstop with her throat on his lips.

And she knows it is irreversible.

She leaves Loess, freed and her warning left in the torn body of the silver stallion.

At first, she takes to the skies, a hawk—her preferred method of travel. She flies for hours, until her wings ache and her lungs sting, and she can nearly forget the deadened look in his eye when the blood drained from him so slowly. And then she lands, shifting into her mother’s tigress. Launching forward, the ground pounding beneath her heavy paws, her head thudding painfully with the realization of it.

She was no better than Ghaul.

She was no kinder than her mother.

She was the Alpha—but she was a killer too.

The thought of it is chilling. Empowering. Sickening. It swirls in her belly until it sours, turns her mouth dry and sets her blood on fire. She cannot decide if she is ready to fight again or if she wants to sleep until this nightmare ends. Instead she shifts back into herself—into this version of herself, at least—and stands on the edge of the forest. Somber. Clear-eyed. Dried blood on the corners of her pale mouth.

She looks into the shadows and sees nothing reflected back at her.

though ritual pyre sending smoke to the sky as the building continues to burn
though rapt in the ruin, the pain in the grave, is lies you leave tied to the earth