"Put the blade down."
Magnolia's voice rang out through the hollow, cutting through the air like a bell of iron. But Camille didn't move. She stood barefoot on the moss-covered slope, her dress torn at the hem, streaked with ash and dried blood. The bone crown sat crooked atop her head, its edges glinting red beneath the sickle of the broken moon.
"You're late," Camille said softly.
"Then you're still you," Magnolia replied.
Camille tilted her head. Her blackened eyes shimmered, reflecting too many lights, like mirrors that held the memory of fire. "That's the question, isn't it?"
Behind Magnolia, the others froze. Rhett's grip tightened on his blade. Savannah's breath was shallow. Lucien's eyes flicked from Camille's blade to the symbols carved into her arms, glowing faintly now, like a forge banked for war.
Beckett's voice was a quiet rasp. "She's carrying Hollowfang steel. That blade was forged for blood rites."
"I know," Magnolia said. "It has my name on it."
