The Sentinels burned away to ash

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“Deirdre!”

The dark witch’s ragged screams had split the sky again and again, drawing the Leviathan reluctantly from his brood. The Blackrock warband had been all but decimated by the loss of Skellige and the subsequent inferno, and Szymon’s full attention had gone toward placating the Sea and keeping Doe, Muses, and the remaining children fed and cared for. In between times, he searched for his first daughter, coming up short every damn time — but what he feared the most was the faraway look that appeared more and more often in Doe’s eyes. She was like quicksilver to him — always had been; hollow-boned as a bird and just as eager to take flight — and the thought of losing her was worse than the prospect of living inland the rest of his days.

He followed the keening wails to the brittle edge of Donnelaith, his hackles bristling and lips curling reflexively at the smoke that hung still in the frigid air, and he arrived just in time to hear the grayscale male offer his name. It was a fortunate thing that he’d caught the wolf’s introduction, because at first sight — grayscale fur, turquoise eyes, tall and sturdy build — fury swam through Szymon’s bloodstream. His trained eyes wanted to see Rannoch the Deserter, but they marked the differences in pattern and scent with fierce alacrity. A low, guttural chuff announced the alpha’s presence and served as a succinct greeting as he drew in the female’s scent as well, finding an unfamiliar wave of wolfscent tainted with brine. Without preamble, “You are Deirdre’s sister,” he guessed, his bass timbre weary and heavy with grief, his scarred legs and sand-caked paws braced with readiness should either of the strangers provide a threat to his person.

It did not escape his notice that she could be the sister he sought.

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