M y eyelids fluttered open. Blades of grass tickled my nose. The air was silent. Peaceful, even.

It took a few long seconds for the events of the night to return to me.

I shot upright. I was in a field beneath a starry sky. I’d been holding onto both Sammerin and Max when Sammerin executed his Stratagram, but neither were beside me now.

I struggled to my feet, frantic. “Sammerin? Max?”

My voice was weak, at first. “Max?”

I couldn’t have lost him again. Not again.

Then there was movement in the grass. To my left, the long-haired man

—Max’s brother, gods, that was a story I needed to hear—rolled over and pushed himself up.

To my right, Sammerin sat up from behind a pile of rocks, rubbing his temple.

“I cannot believe I just did that,” he muttered, as if to himself. “A Stratagram with four people. Ascended.”

And then, at last, Max emerged from a cluster of trees.

He moved with a slight limp. His clothes were torn and burnt, his dark hair much shaggier and longer than it had been before, one cheek smeared with blood. He was leaner. And it was only now, when I had the time to get a proper look at him, that I realized the tattoos covered every inch of him but his face—Stratagrams on top of Stratagrams.

His eyes—those beautiful, milky blue eyes—lifted to meet mine, and it was those eyes that were my undoing.

I ran to him, threw my arms around his neck and buried my face against his shoulder. Though he had lost weight, he felt the same, every angle and curve and swell of his body falling against mine in a way that felt like home

—my home, and gods, I was never leaving, I was never letting go, I would live here, in the scent of him, in the feel of his breath against my chest, forever.

My breath was ragged. I probably looked like a blubbering mess. I didn’t care. I was too happy.

How long did it take me to realize he wasn’t hugging me back?