Ylva's blood-debt is paid. The Jarl is dead. She curls into the warmth of the wolf den, ready to forget. But in her sleep, she stands barefoot on a plain of black glass beneath a tower of fused bone. A voice speaks from the smoke — amused, ancient, and unimpressed. The necromancer who pulled Vane's strings is not angry that Ylva burned his puppet. He is interested. And interested is far worse.
