Deleted Scene from The Last Swiftwind
This was cut from the current published version but it ate at my whole soul afterward so it will absolutely be coming back when I release the special edition sometime soon…ish. Maybe. Eventually…

This version includes Finn’s POV.

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Enjoy.

Prologue

Bronwyn | Eldrion

Hidden in the shadows of a weathered rooftop, I crouched low, my body pressed to the cool stone as I dissolved into the night. Eldrion pulsed beneath me, its energy humming as street lamps cast jagged, flickering patterns of light and shadow across the cobblestones. The city buzzed with life: distant voices, clinking metal, the steady rhythm of the Aurinthian Sea. 

These nights used to soothe me. The salt air. The scent of spice on the breeze. The quiet before the storm. But the illusion of peace shattered as memories—like ghosts—clawed their way from the buried past. Sometimes it was my mother’s laughter that haunted me—bright, unguarded, like sunlight through stained glass. Tonight, it was his voice. My father’s. 

“Ryn, I need you to be brave now.” 

That memory came rushing back like smoke through a broken window. The heat. The screams.

The way the house groaned as fire chewed through the walls. The floor beneath us burned. Death knocking at the door. 

“Papa, I’m scared,” I had whispered. 

“I know, my sweet girl,” he’d said, his arms around me. His voice was steady. His honeyed eyes glowed with firelight and something fiercer. Love, maybe. Or goodbye. 

I touched my cheek without thinking, remembering the heat of his blood when it hit me—sudden, warm, that bolt jutting out of his chest where it hadn’t been a second before. The sound it made. The way his body jerked. I hadn’t screamed. Couldn’t. I stood there, frozen. 

One second he was holding me, telling me to be brave. The next, he was gone. That warmth stayed with me far longer than it should have. It marked me. Branded me. I blinked hard, dragging myself back to the present. The ache in my chest never left. It just settled deeper.

Below me, Finnegan stood watch. One hand was in his coat pocket, the other on his sword hilt. He didn’t look up, but I saw the nod—subtle, practiced, ours. A barely there tilt of his chin: go time. 

The Silver Griffin spilled warm light onto the street. A group of off-duty guards stumbled outside, their drunken laughter slicing through the night. Leading the pack was the man I had come for. Scarred. Smirking. 

My grip didn’t waver. It was familiar. An extension of myself. I raised the crossbow. Lined up the shot. My breath: slow. Steady. I had waited thirteen years for this moment. 

“This is for you, Papa,” I whispered—and let the bolt fly.

***

Finnegan | Eldrion

I stepped into the Silver Griffin just long enough to remind the room who belonged in it. The door closed behind me with a soft thud. Ale, smoke, grease—the same stink as every other tavern that pretended it wasn’t a front for something uglier.

I took a quick inventory: exits, faces, those who’d noticed me and who were smart enough to pretend they hadn’t. Our target had already left, but I wanted to be sure there were no stragglers left behind. I was certain there wouldn’t be, but needed something to do while Bronwyn was in action. 

I slid into the shadows along the back wall, where men who plotted didn’t want to be overheard, and let the noise swallow me. Laughter. Tankards. Lies. Candlelight scraped across scarred tables and turned faces into masks of false security. Gods, I hated this fucking city.

Whizbang hopped into the edge of the nearest table, lenses flickering, fingers already busy with some clever little distraction he’d cobbled together out of springs and malice. His attention drifted toward the barmaid when she approached our table. 

I huffed quietly. “Focus, you metallic nuisance.”

He leaned a fraction too far forward, sending my tankard over the table with a clatter that cut straight through the noise and drew a few annoyed glances in our direction. I sighed and bent to help mop up the mess, offering the barmaid my most apologetic smile—the one that usually kept knives out of my back. This was Eldrion, after all—home of Eldrathia’s most vile cutthroats and thieves.

That was when a scream tore through the tavern. Sharp. Wrong. Raising the hair on my arms. I knew that sound. I’d heard it in alleys and doorways and on nights that never ended well. 

Death had announced itself.

“That’s our cue,” I muttered, already moving. Whizbang fell into step as I headed for the door, gears whispering. I kept my pace measured. Panic was for amateurs. Control was how you stayed alive.

Outside, the street had detonated into noise. A city guard lay sprawled on the cobblestones, torchlight turning his blood black. A crowd swelled fast. Fear always drew an audience. I noticed the new guards immediately, noted who was shouting orders and who was looking for someone else to take charge. 

I flicked my eyes to Bronwyn’s post. No sign of her. Good.

I slipped my hand into my shoulder harness and found the cool curve of steel. The spider folded against my palm, patient and lethal in its own quiet way. I’d built the first of them years ago to help with lock picking and pickpocketing—back when Bronwyn was still learning which risks were worth taking and which would get her killed. I’d refined them since, like everything else I have made to keep her from death’s doorstep.

I gave Whizbang a look. He understood what to do without my needing to say so. Lights flared. Gears sang. Whizbang unfolded himself into a spectacle, all clever motion and harmless wonder, pulling eyes and curiosity away from the body like a practiced street performer. The crowd parted for me without realizing it had, even the shadows knew better than to cling when I passed. 

I released the metal spider at the fallen guard’s side, watched it vanish up his tunic, invisible amid the chaos gathering all around. A flick of my fingers sent the command. It returned moments later, dropping a small pendant into my hand. The Syndicate Sigil.

Fuck.

Around me, voices piled up—half-truths and superstition tripping over each other. 

“Came from the ground, I swear.”

“Agent of Umbrakin.”

“Monsters don’t use bows.”

“Probably the Syndicate.”

“Shut up before you disappear.”

I clicked my tongue softly. The spider folded in on itself and went still. I tucked the pendant away, pulse steady despite the cold curling in my gut. The Syndicate didn’t make mistakes, and they certainly didn’t leave calling cards unless they wanted a message delivered. This pendant though, this was given to higher ranking officers. A badge of sorts, to be shown to other members of the clandestine network. 

Whizbang met my gaze across the street, lights dimming. He didn’t need to ask if something was wrong. All of this was wrong. I turned away from the crowd, already shifting pieces of this new puzzle in my head. 

Bronwyn was going to lose her shit when she saw this. I had half a mind to let her loose on all of them—because if the Nightshade Syndicate thought they could move on my fucking city without consequence, they were about to learn how badly they’d miscalculated.