Lyssandra.
I watched as Valtira’s body crumpled to the floor.
For a fraction of a second, my legs nearly betrayed me. Instinct urged me forward—to catch her before her head struck the stone, to steady her the way one would steady a fallen sister. But I did not move.
I could not.
Zarek’s arm was draped heavily over my shoulders, his weight pressing into me. His other hand still clung weakly to Zachariah, his strength dulled by the wolfsbane we had forced him to take. He was conscious enough to resist, but not enough to fight.
We had given them both wolfsbane.
I should have felt worse.
Perhaps I did.
But this was not the moment to unravel under guilt.
Valtira’s hurt, her anger, her sense of betrayal—those would have to wait. I would apologize later. I would kneel if I had to. I woul
