Though Losa knew for certain the other Arcus Irae were alive somewhere in Blossom Forest, she ferociously refused to thank the gods for the rainbow children’s miraculous survival. The gods had not freed the poor darlings—Zawyne had freed them, and Losa had run alongside her little sibling to lead them out of the broken kingdom. Finding her sister again? Losa owed that to her own senses. Finding a Tempest to guard her? Purely coincidence. The only thing Losa attributed to the gods—what she would curse them for until her screaming voice tore to shreds and her lungs collapsed from lack of breath—was her twisted bond to Duma. She had fallen deeply, irrevocably, gloriously in love with her fearsome Thunder Killer . . . and yet the gods tied her soul permanently to the guard who only ever wanted to rule. An entire world away, Losa felt the heavy ice of chains bound tight around her core—pulling her toward a heart she never wanted. The battered princess felt the enraged agony of her “soulmate” like the ache of a broken bone that refused to mend.

Her only satisfaction was that, though the gods had designed her blasphemous rejection to sting her back, Duma surely suffered worse.

A bitter smile flashed fleetingly across the dancer’s blue-streaked muzzle as she marched, allowing her inherent connection to the other Arcus Irae to lead her through the woods. If Duma felt like glacial shackles cutting into her chest, then the rainbow pups were the warm glow of sunlight, gentle and clear. It took Losa several days to fully ensure all of them had successfully entered this new land; at first, jumbled with her own wild anxiety, their distant energies pulsed through her awareness in an undistinguishable coil. She knew some traversed Blossom—but of course some did not allow her to sleep easy. Losa fretted herself to illness trying to tease out the individual glows of “soul,” counting over and over in her mind until she knew for certain they hadn’t left a child back in the chaos of their ruined homeland. Only once she’d snared a certain path did the ex-heiress decide to set off and begin the rescue party. “I’m coming, dear ones. We’ll all be together soon.”

Aindreas, her recently discovered Ofer, would not trail far behind her; however, Losa had made it abundantly clear that she did not desire a shadow. Growing up with the Five felt akin to imprisonment: never a private moment to herself, constantly punished for her urgent craving for freedom. The Wandering Star could not bear a repeat of such a stifling, suffocating life. “I’ll go on ahead—you’ll know if something is wrong.” She tossed the comment over her shoulder, giving a half smile to the Tempest whose kindness frightened her, and raced forward until his presence pulsed as faintly as the wings of a moth over her mind. I know they’re close . . . perhaps another day’s journey north . . .

Evening trickled across the sky, darkening light blue to rich navy and sunset’s orange haze. Losa’s pace never faltered; with those vulnerable Arcus Irae so close, she refused to slow down. She might no longer hold her crown, yet these pups relied on her to lead them—not as their Princess, but as a loving older sister. Long midnight-painted limbs carried the ballerina effortlessly over pine needles crushed into the dirt and grass packed down by deer hooves; her elegant muzzle pointed straight ahead, filling her lungs with fragrant air still warm from the sun; triangular ears perked toward the sound of running water—her paws quickening—realizing that if she had found Zawyne by the river, perhaps the other rainbows had sought the current out—

An unexpected scent brushed by her nares. Nearly too faint to make out. Losa halted, turning her crown to better face the breeze, every pastel hair on her pelt standing on end. Then, lyrics quivering with disbelief, the sylph erupted into a full sprint. “Hurricane! HURRICANE!”

She discovered him unconscious, mere yards from the river. He was a hulking mountain hunched over the earth, blacker than a cave’s shadow, thick fur matted with the crusted crimson of old blood. Losa made a strangled sound of horror—dashing over mindlessly, panicked eyes scanning every inch of him, the smell of his wounds coating her tongue and painting the back of her throat, and she was crying his name and pouncing on him with her paws, but he wasn’t waking up—why isn’t he waking up?! “Hurricane?! Torneach Mhutair, answer me this instant!” She took at mouthful of his ruff and yanked. Her pitiful efforts barely budged him. With a frustrated, heartbroken shriek the faerie plunged toward the river and threw herself into its frigid rush, gasping aloud as it robbed her body instantly of warmth. Seeing no other alternative, Losa began splashing water toward her fallen dragon, scraping up great waves to slap across his blank visage. When this failed to rouse him fast enough, the desperate creature took a mouthful of water and dragged herself back to the bank; then she gently opened his maw, nose nudging at the corner of his jowls, and allowed the liquid she carried to pour slowly onto his tongue.