Otto settles his hands on my waist and gasps, his fingers clamping tighter, and heat radiates off his chest—off his tattoo.
I reach out along our bond, and then beyond it, entwining to point into the distance together.
First, Dieter. Our tether winds around him, snuffs out his final grasp at magic like it’s nothing more than a candle flame. For all the destructionhe caused, that’s as strong as he ever truly was—a single flicker, a weak, unsustainable spark. Cut off, he lets out one pained cry, and that desperate hold he had on his dying body begins to slip away.
For a moment, I’m drawn out of my focus. I’m pulled to stare at him again, watching the light leave his heavy blue eyes, eyes that I swear once sparkled with joy, eyes that used to entice and promise.
I don’t think that version of my brother ever really existed; I think I cobbled together that memory of him, wanting so badly to not fear him, to not hate him.
Hate is all that remains now. Not even fear. And maybe Ishouldbe fearful, on some level, that I can look at him and feel only burning hatred—but that is reclaiming in a way too. This is all he deserves from me. Just enough hatred to stop him. Just enough energy to end this.
His eyelids flicker, then softly close.
The flood of power that had been feeding into him shifts now, widening—without his will against it, it bucks like a furious horse, kicking and wild.
Otto and I stagger, feet slipping on the Tree’s roots, flames still burning, brushing up against the edges of our boots, long fingers of it reaching for our arms and faces. But we stay focused, locked together, all of our concentration on that tether, our tether, and now, this magic. Our magic.
Out, I think. We think.Go.
Out into the world. Out into people like those we passed in our travels, people just trying to endure. Out into people like those hiding in Trier, cowering under the persecution of the hexenjägers. Out even into the hexenjägers themselves, people who have never considered that there is another way; they have that way now, they have a path that is not lined with hate. Out, out, into hearts and souls.
Faces flash in my mind. All the people who were in the prison withme before Otto blew up the aqueducts. And the children near his housefort, little Mia and her brother.
Then another face comes, one I know is from Otto, the kick of grief that accompanies it: Johann. What could have happened if he’d had magic during the fight with Dieter under the city?
Out, out; our combined will tethers like our bond.
I see witches too. Witches in the Well, and others, still scattered, few and in hiding. I see the rules they have been forced to adhere to that limited their power in ways they aren’t even aware of. I see that potential inside each of them, the sudden filling where they had previously only been able to draw in such magic through rigid customs and ceremony. They are full now, full to bursting with power, and tears trickle down my face as I feel their awe and wonder.
The kicking, bucking wildness of the Origin Tree’s magic breaks into an all-out sprint, surging, unburdened, unrestricted. It rips my breath away, sucks against the air in a whirlwind that douses the fire, spinning bits of ash and debris around us in a windstorm. It spins, spins, gusts stronger, and in that wind, I spot the three stones whirling around us, caught in the dance of the magic evolving.
Just as quickly as the storm came, it stops.
The magic has left the Tree. It has somewhere else to go now.
The wind settles. The stones drop with heavy thuds to the roots around us, where they come to rest, unchanged.
Otto and I stay there, locked with our foreheads together, panting and hearts racing. I only give us a moment’s pause before I rear back and look him all over, patting his chest.
“Are you all right?” I demand. “Did that hurt you?”
He pushes air out his nose. “Did it hurtme? What aboutyou? You’re the one usually—”
He stops. Pushes on his chest. Panic leeches into my body until he smiles, wide and beaming.
“I can feel it,” he whispers. “Fritzi—I can feel the magic in me. It’s—not yours, not like when I draw on you. It’s—” His smile flickers. Tears glisten in his eyes. “It’smine.”
Behind us, a cry goes up.
We both whirl on the Tree’s roots to see a few remaining hexenjägers on their knees at swordpoint by Brigitta’s guards. The witches are cheering their victory, a victory I can hear echoed throughout the Well, beyond this little glen.
Liesel scrambles up the roots and throws herself around my waist, arms locked tight. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—I shouldn’t have burned him; I shouldn’t have used fire—”
I wrap my arms around her shoulders. “Liesel, it wasn’t your fault. It’s all right.” I exhale, shaking, and feel those words. “Everything’s all right now.”
In the tangle of guards before us, I spot Hilde, bloodstained but smiling. Cornelia leans on Alois; the two of them give a tentative smile.
Then their eyes lift beyond me, to the Tree, and their faces pulse wide with shock.
