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“Rowan.”
It was impossible, utterly impossible, and
yet—
“North,” Gavriel said, turning his bay
gelding. “The surge came from the North.”
From Doranelle.
A beacon in the night. Power rippling into
the world, as it had done in Skull’s Bay.
It filled him with sound, with fire and light.
As if it screamed, again and again, I am alive,
I am alive, I am alive.
And then silence. Like it had been cut off.
Extinguished.
He refused to think of why. The mating
bond remained. Stretched taut, but it
remained.
So he sent the words along it, with as much
hope and fury and unrelenting love as he had
felt from her. I will find you.
There was no answer. Nothing but