“Olivia,” Rand’s voice rumbles, tired and ancient. “You risk collapse.”
“Idon’t care.”
He says nothing. Waiting.
I close my eyes, clutching the shard tighter. “Therehasto be another way. Something to keep him here. Something to anchor him that isn’t death and damnation.”
A long pause. Then, quiet and low: “There is a rite. Old. Forbidden.”
I open my eyes. “Why?”
“It costs the Spear everything. Its power, its essence—it will be snuffed out.”
“To do what?”
“To bind Kursk’s soul to your world. Not as a warrior. Not as an orc. As aman.Mortal. Changed.”
My throat locks.
He could stay. Stay here. With me. Not just as a hunter on borrowed time, not as a weapon cursed with duty—but asKursk.No ticking clock. No going home to a realm that chews him up. Justus.
“What do I need?” I whisper.
“Blood. His name. The shard’s last breath. And your word.”
I nod once.
“Don’t,” says another voice behind me. Rough. Furious.
Kursk is standing. Barely. One hand braced on the couch, the other clutched around his ribs. His skin is pale, sweat-drenched, and shaking—but his eyes burn like coals.
“You eavesdrop now?” I hiss.
“You speak my death sentence.”
“No! I’m speaking yoursurvival.”
He limps forward. “You would destroy the spear—forme?”
“Yes.”
“That is madness.”
“No,” I snap, standing. “Madness isletting you diebecause of some dumb honor code you wrote in orc kindergarten.”
His jaw flexes. “You do not understand. The Spear is sacred?—”
“I don’t give a damn if it was forged by gods and blessed by a thousand ancestors! It’s astickif you’re dead!”
He snarls. “I was born to wield it!”
“And what if youdiewielding it?” My voice cracks, but I don’t care. “You think I want a statue? A legend? A story to cry over while the world forgets your name? I wantyou, dammit. Real and alive and here!”
Silence.
He looks away.
I press the cloth into his hand. “You don’t have to be the hero. Not this time.”
