In a sun-drowned field, Alina reaches for you with kohl-smudged hands, and the world in her eyes. Somewhere, she’s long since sketched the shape of you enough to commit it to muscle memory. Somewhere, she’s long since pressed you in between the two heaviest books she could find; breathless. There’s blood dripping from her palms.

Wylan was supposed to die of old age. Jesper was supposed to have decades more at his side. Now he won’t. And Wylan’s determined that Jesper won’t follow him.