"Release me, Dax," I growl, a feral edge to my voice that surprises even me. I yank my arm free of his hold.

"Damrion," he repeats, his voice soft. “The Fae are dying. You have to empty the city. You’re the only one left who can issue the order. We can’t lose you, too.”

Nei. I have to go. I have to…

My knees buckle, and I crumble to the floor, my stomach twisting into knots.

Memories of Adriel flood my mind—the way he would growl my name when he kissed me, the sound of his moans when I was deep inside him. The look of disappointment in his eyes when he stormed out.

He never should have been out there. He went because of me.

And because of me, he’s dead.

I lean forward, bile rising in my throat as I choke on Adriel's name. My vision blurs with tears as I vomit. The fucking air feels like it’s trying to suffocate me. The acrid smell of smoke and death clings to everything around me, as if to remind me of everything I’ve lost.

"Damrion," Dax murmurs, concern ringing in his voice as he kneels beside me. "You need to breathe."

But breathing only brings more pain and the crushing weight of guilt. Adriel is dead, and it’s my fault. I was so fucking afraid to love him openly, afraid it would consume me whole and everyone would see what I already knew: I wasn’t worthy of him. He’s always been the best of us. And I’ve been handed everything simply by place of birth.

Now, I’ve lost him anyway. I’ve lost everything.

Agony rips through me, tearing at every fiber of my being.

“Get out.”

“Damr—”

“Get the fuck out, Dax.”

He sighs quietly, but he doesn’t argue with me. His footsteps retreat across the battlements before fading entirely.

"Adriel," I whisper, a prayer to whatever Gods might still be listening as tears pour down my cheeks. "Not dead. Please, not dead."

But if any of the Gods still live, they aren’t answering. Not my prayers. Not today. I’ve used up every last one I have trying to save the Fae.

Adriel is gone.

And I never even told him that I love him.

Chapter One

Abigail

Seattle, Now

I know I’m dreaming. I always do when the nightmares and the visions come. But I drown in them anyway, tossed like a buoy from one violent scene to the next with nothing to anchor me. This one might be the worst.

A scream rips from my throat as one of the Forsaken—a soulless monster with pale skin and a misshapen mouth—reaches out, grasping the young Valkyrie in front of him around the throat. Her dark hair whips around her face, her dark eyes widening with terror as he lifts her from the floor. Her feet scrabble for purchase on the old church floor, her nails digging into the pale flesh of his arm as she struggles to breathe, fighting to free herself.

But it’s useless.

With a vicious snarl, the Forsaken flings her across the room. Her body sails through the air before striking the wall with a sickening crunch.

I feel the life draining out of her as she crumples to the floor, pale and still.

I cry out in terror, desperately trying to reach her. But I have no body here. There’s nothing I can do. I’m simply a watcher, forced to witness these atrocities, unable to act to stop them.

This is my hell.

The scene flickers like the shutter of a camera as it changes. Forsaken spread throughout a church, polluting it with their corrupt magic. The Valkyrie lies crumpled on the floor. The Fae race through the dark streets of Seattle.

My mind spins wildly as one tiny glimmer after another flows through me, brought by some seiðr magic—seer magic—no one, not even the Fae, understands.

I see thousands of snapshots in these moments, paths we might take, things that might come to pass. Not all are certain. What we do moment to moment dictates how the Norns weave the tapestry.

But the strongest visions? Those are all but guaranteed. They will happen. Unless we force them to change.

Another flicker and a vision solidifies. This one is certain, then.

Eitr is overrun, the Forsaken and varulv flooding the streets. Their dark magic and evil pollute everything.

I get pulled into a cabin in the heart of Eitr.

My heart clenches when I see Tori tied to a chair. Her vibrant energy slowly fades as she struggles weakly against her bonds, tears mixing with the red stains on her cheeks until it looks almost as if she cries blood.

Reaper lies on the floor at her feet, a gaping hole in his chest. Even in death, he reaches for her, one hand extended as if, in his final moments, he sought to comfort her.

Outside, screams grow louder—the screams of the Fae. They’re dying.

Damrion. Adriel.

No. Gods, no.

Horror and defiance well up inside me, screaming in fury. But it’s too late to save them. I feel them slipping away—the biggest parts of my soul being torn from me as they fade.

I scream in agony. In torment.

The scene flickers again, changing.

I stare down at myself this time. A Forsaken in jeans and a hoodie looms over me in the kitchen at the safehouse in Washington—the same one where my sleeping body lies right now. Injured warriors litter the ground. Others are held back by dark flows of magic. The Forsaken is speaking to me, though I can’t make out the words. He points at a rippling black shadow in the corner.

A portal, corrupted by their evil magic.

“If I let you take me in their place, you’ll let Tori and the other Valkyrie live? You won’t harm the Fae?”

The Forsaken nods.

Tears run down my cheeks as I nod and stumble toward the portal. I don’t fight him. I don’t try to get away. To my horror, I go willingly, letting him guide me into the corrupt portal.