Silvertip Mountain You will hear music and then you will not

This was worse than anything Aventus could have imagined. He knew his father was in terrible pain. He also knew his father was prone to horrific rage. Losing Nyra had surely thinned Merrick's control over the part of himself that found power and comfort in harming others. That was what he was most afraid of.

Once, he was terrified of the dragon that was his father. Once, he worshipped the man as fervently as he feared him. Merrick was a god to him, great and terrible all at once. His loyalty still belonged to his father and Ursus in totality, but for the first time, Aventus was not afraid of what Merrick could do to him. It was what he could do to Arielle that made him feel like he'd swallowed ice shards.

The healer moved forward. It was everything Aventus could do not to come between her and Merrick. His father did not turn on her with vengeful fangs, however, but began to speak to the ceiling and the skull alike. The ice shards turned to motes of dread. Astara was dead. There was no retrieving her from where she had gone, just as there was no retrieving Evien, no matter how often the Bruin-witch spoke senselessly to that skull.

No way he would tell Merrick that, though. We will reach her, he said in a shaky voice, with a helpless yet grateful glance to Arielle when she suggested a walk outside. We can go to the forest next door, he added. He didn't dare to brighten up, but he remembered where the blood splatter was. Wouldn't it be better for Merrick to see it for himself instead of merely taking his son's word for it? There's something there that might help.