"No—"
I tear free. Launch myself at him with strength I didn't have a moment ago. We crash through the roof, through stone and timber, into open air above the courtyard.
"You're too late," I snarl into his face. "It's already happening. You can't stop it."
"Then I'll stop her." His eyes are wild now. Mad. "Before the transfer completes. Save what I can."
He breaks away from me. Dives toward the throne room.
Toward Kess.
I follow.
35
Kess
The castle shakes.
Dust rains from the ceiling. Somewhere above us, dragons are tearing each other apart—I can hear the roars, the crash of bodies through stone, the screams of men dying. Rhystan is up there fighting his father while I stand in a silver circle and try to remember how to breathe.
"Focus." The mystic's voice cuts through the chaos. "The battle is his. The ritual is yours."
She's right. I know she's right. But every instinct I have is screaming to go up there, to fight beside him, to do something other than stand here while he bleeds for me.
The twins kick sharply. Both of them—our son aggressive and violent, our daughter fluttering in response. The curse is stirring in my son's blood. I can feel it through the bond, through whatever connection links mother to child. He's agitated. Dangerous. The divine rage that's been building for months is reaching critical mass.
We're out of time.
"We start now," I tell the mystic. "Whether Rhystan's here or not."
She nods. Hands me the ritual knife—dragon-forged steel, blessed by the mystic herself, sharp enough to cut through scales. The blade gleams in the candlelight, waiting.
I step into the center of the silver circle.
The herb smoke is thick now, filling my lungs with every breath. It tastes like ash and something sweeter underneath—flowers, maybe, or honey. The mystic said it would help my body accept the transfer. I hope she's right.
Above us, something crashes through stone. The whole castle groans.
I raise the knife.
"Blood of the vessel," the mystic intones. "Freely given."
I draw the blade across my palm. Deep—deeper than I intended, the knife so sharp I barely feel it until blood wells up hot and red, spilling over my fingers, dripping onto the silver lines beneath my feet.
"Blood of the cursed." The mystic looks toward the ceiling. "Freely given."
That's supposed to be Rhystan. He's supposed to be here, cutting his own palm, mingling his blood with mine. But he's not here. He's fighting for his life—for our lives—somewhere above us.
The castle shakes again. Harder this time.
And then the ceiling explodes.
Stone and timber rain down. I throw my arms up to protect my face, feel debris bounce off the scales that have been spreading across my skin for months. Through the dust and chaos I see him—Rhystan in dragon form, massive and bleeding from a dozen wounds, crashing through the roof with his father's jaws locked around his throat.
They hit the floor ten feet from my circle. Stone cracks beneath their combined weight. Rhystan tears free, shifts tohuman form mid-motion, and stumbles toward me with blood streaming down his chest.
"The knife." He's gasping, barely standing. "Give me the knife."
