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437 pages, Paperback
First published June 1, 2021
But the legends lie. The Wolf is a man, not a monster. Her magic is a calling, not a curse. And if she doesn't learn how to use it, the monsters the gods have become will swallow the Wilderwood—and her world—whole.
Still, Eammon paused next to her, a muscle feathering in his jaw, a swallow working down his throat. Pain carved lines beside his mouth and made his shoulders stiff—the roots knotted around his spine tightening, pulling him back toward the gloom of his forest. It might let him go, on its northern border, but it wouldn't let him forget where he belonged.
Her lip worked between her teeth.
"I don't know if you're trying to protect me, or if you just don't want to bother telling me anything." Her hands curled and released, loose fists that held nothing. "But I can only help you as much as you let me, Eammon."
"In order to keep the Shadowlands from leaking through—in order to keep the wall strong—we have to put the sentinels back where they're supposed to be. When we heal them, they return to their place."
"So how do we heal them?"
"Directing magic to drive back the rot."
"Through touch, I assume." She didn't know why it came out so low, so hoarse.
Eammon's shoulders went rigid, his own answer graveled. "Yes."
"I dug through the storerooms and found an old pair you can have. I left them by the fireplace." He glanced over his shoulder, brow quirked, then faced the tower again. "They won't fit, but that didn't stop you with my shirt."
"It was too cold to be naked."
He didn't turn, but his hand spasmed by his side, and he made a choked noise. Behind him, Red grinned.
"It's far more complicated than that, Redarys." Eammon's eyes were stern. "Chasing the shadow-rot out of a person is dangerous. It takes more power than I have anymore—"
"But you aren't doing it alone." Red shook her head. "You don't have to do everything alone, Eammon."
His mouth was a tight line, hair shadowing his eyes. There was something waiting in the space between them, something vast and terrifying, but it narrowed down to this: the itch in her fingers to smooth along his jaw. The certainty that her palm would never feel right again unless it swept his hair off his forehead.
Red dropped her eyes; his were suddenly too much for her. "Let me help you, and we can help Bormain. We can at least speak with Valdrek about it."
He searched her face, lips slightly parted, as if looking for something he was both eager and terrified to find. Then he turned sharply, headed for the other side of the square. "Have it your way, Lady Wolf."
All of them loved like burning, no thought for the ashes.
The Second Daughter is for the Wolf.
The First Daughter is for the Throne.