The Fated Series
When she cut them a glare over her shoulder—sharp, involuntary, unfair—they took it without flinching.
You didn’t tell me, her eyes said.
We couldn’t, theirs answered in the same breath. Or we didn’t know how.
Balor lay amidst the hum of machines and the hush of whispered orders, and for a moment she didn’t recognize him. He was too pale, all that golden hair dark with sweat and blood, his chest swaddled in bandages that had bled through and then been replaced so many times the pile of used cloth beside his cot was a small hill. Tubing fed his vein and drained his wound. The scent of silver—cold, metallic, wrong—poisoned the air around him.