Rhys knelt in the burned cane field; the bitter smoke stung his eyes and nose. The ground was muddy beneath him, and black ruin stretched to the horizon.

“Gone.”

It was all gone. Hope. The future. He’d grasped for beauty beyond his reach, and it had been taken from him. His pride had led to this. His greed. His dishonor.

A soft hand touched his shoulder. “It’s not gone.”

His shoulders began to shake. “I’m dreaming.”

“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and the sweet scent of her skin brought a flood of new tears. “You’re dream-walking. With me.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For letting you die.” The wound bled fresh. Every night would be this way. Every night he would relive her life. Her death. It was what he deserved. He’d known hope wasn’t for him. He’d known it wasn’t what he deserved.

“Reshon, wake up.”

“No.” He clutched her arm. Reliving her loss was worth it if he remained in her presence for even a few more moments. “Stay with me.”

“I’m here.” She bent to his cheek and kissed it. “Do you understand?” She sang in his ear, and green shoots speared through the mud. She sang and the sun rose over the horizon. “The nightmare cannot have you,” she whispered, “because you are mine.”

Soft grass grew beneath his knees. He bent down and touched his lips to the earth. The stink of death was gone and the air smelled sweet.

“Open your eyes, my love.”

* * *

Rhys opened his eyes, and Meera was lying next to him. Her cheek was stained with ash and her eyes were bloodshot, but she was there.

She was alive.

A hoarse groan ripped from his throat. He reached for her and clutched her to his chest. Raw cries ripped his chest. He coughed and wept, holding her and touching every part of her.

Her arms. Her precious hands and fingers. He kissed her knuckles and felt down her body. Her legs were strong and whole. No gash marked her belly. No blood stained her skin.

He kissed every inch of her face and rocked her back and forth.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

The terror hadn’t been real. The visions were lies.

“My mother?” he asked roughly. “My father? Your parents?”

“Safe. They’re all safe and mostly whole.”

“We need to call Istanbul and check on the children.”

She nodded. “We can do that.”

“Damien and Sari?”

“Alive and conscious. You were the one who bore the brunt of Bozidar’s attack.” She was crying too, wiping the tears from his face. “You were the one who let him in.”

“He’s dead.” The angel must be dead, or his courageous mate would still be fighting.

“He’s dust,” Meera said. “Facing judgment before the Creator now.”

It was over.

Rhys coughed and looked around the room, not recognizing where they were. “What is this?”

“My old room at the house. Unfortunately, our tent and most of the outbuildings were burned. The house is okay though.”

Rhys tried to sort through his muddled memories of the battle. “What started the fire?”

“Sabine.” Meera pulled away, and her expression was stricken. “The Grigori killed a girl. Sabine saw them, lost control, and…”

“Is everything gone?” He pulled Meera back to his chest; even a little distance between them felt unbearable.

“Of course not.” She wrapped her arms around him. “We’re here. We lost five of our people, and many more were injured, but far more survived. We killed an archangel. We protected our home.”

“We let him in,” Rhys murmured. “What were we thinking?”

“He felt safe.” Meera took a deep breath. “That thing lived across the road from us, knowing who and what we were for decades. Taunting us right under our noses even though we couldn’t see him. Watching and waiting for a moment of weakness.”

“They can’t feel safe,” Rhys said.

“If they feel safe, then no one—not Irin or Grigori, and definitely not human—can feel safe. We have to change the rules. In a fair fight, any Irin warrior can stop any Grigori. We’ve played fair and we’ve mastered them.”

“But we’re battling a hydra, chopping off heads that only regrow.”

She nodded. “We have to aim for the heart.”

“Aim for the Fallen.”

“And have mercy on the sons.”

It was a difficult thing to wrap his mind around, especially after waking from a nightmare. “Ask me tomorrow for mercy. Right now I need to remember you’re alive.”

* * *

Rhys and Meera washed together in the bathhouse, which had only taken a little bit of fire damage, and hid in Meera’s room. After a short visit from his parents and hers—along with a call to Istanbul—he locked the door and took her to bed.

The first time they made love was urgent and necessary. The second time was tender. The third sent them both into dreams.

* * *

They walked hand in hand through a path in the fields. Rustling cane whispered around them and night birds sang overhead.

“I saw you here before.”

He turned to her. “Before?”

“Before I knew you.”

“How did you see me?”

She kissed his knuckled. “I loved you then as I love you now. I just hadn’t met you yet.”

At the end of the path lay a sea of memory that stretched into the distance as stars danced overhead. The stars touched the water and the water touched the stars.

She walked up and touched her toes to the edge. The water danced before them, and the waves whispered secrets.

“Do you swim?” she asked.

“I can.”

“Will you swim with me?”

“Always.”

She slipped off her shoes, but he held her back. “Why?”

“Not tonight.”

The whispers became louder; waves rose along the shore.

He turned to the sea. “You are not her master.”

The whispers grew quiet and the waves calmed.

“Tonight we’ll walk,” he said. “You need to rest.”

She took a cleansing breath. “I do need to rest.”

“I know you.” He bent down and kissed her softly. “I’ve always known you.”

“Did you?” A smile bloomed on her face. “That’s right. You did.”