She meant to carve me out of the equation.
Remove me as an anchor.
“Maeve,” Ardetia called, voice cutting through the rising howl of magic. “If you must move, moveup.The path is threaded horizontally here. The vertical line is weakest.”
Up.
Sure.
That would’ve been great advice.
If I could fly.
The vortex spun lower, funnel tightening, focusing on the spot where I stood. Little sparks of black light began to drop from it, leaving scorched marks on the cobbles.
Keegan pressed closer, teeth bared, clearly intending to throw himself between me and whatever was coming.
“No,” I whispered, grabbing his fur. “You can’t…she’ll—”
He growled, a sound of pure refusal.
The vortex screamed.
The priestess’s eyes gleamed with vicious satisfaction.
“Goodbye, child,” she said.
The spell dropped.
It felt like the sky punching down.
I threw everything I had into a shield of thorns, roots, the taste of dragon fire, the hum of the Wards, the memory of Celeste’s laugh. It wasn’t enough. The incoming magic washuge, a tidal wave of shadow and cold and intent.
It slammed into my hastily constructed defenses and began to eat through them, layer by layer.
My knees buckled.
I tasted blood.
“MAEVE!” Twobble screamed.
I heard him as if from very far away.
“FIND GIDEON!”
Something wood and bristly thumped against my shoulder.
For a heartbeat, I thought a random piece of debris had hit me.
Then I recognized the feel of it.
A broomstick.
Not a nice, shiny Academy model. One of Stella’s spares, probably hauled out of a closet when Twobble went raiding for emergency supplies. The handle was scuffed, the bristles slightly wonky.
It bounced off my shoulder, spun, and started to fall.
Without thinking, I grabbed it.
