The rain came harder, as if the sky had waited for the precise moment Damaris’s ash cooled to give the city permission to weep. It found every crack in Mirror Chapel’s roof and threaded down in silver lines, hissing where it struck hot stone. The air tasted like iron and old incense. Aria could feel the Chapel watching her even with Damaris gone, the way a battlefield takes attendance after the noise dies.
Dominic’s arms were the only thing that didn’t waver. He held her like he’d practiced the motion a thousand times and hoped he would never need it. “Stay with me,” he said, his voice a low command meant for bone, not ears.
“I’m not leaving,” Aria managed. Her ribs felt stitched together with wire. Blood had glued silk to her skin at the shoulder and side, but the pain had a clean edge
