I think: I'm sorry.
I think: Kaan?—
A blade erupts from Father's chest.
Light-crystal steel, slicked with blood, punching through golden armor from behind. The tip stops six inches from my face, close enough that I can feel the heat of the light magic still crackling along its edge.
Father's eyes go wide.
His killing stroke falters. His sword drops from fingers that have suddenly forgotten how to grip. He looks down at the blade protruding from his chest—looks at it with the confused expression of a man who cannot understand what he's seeing.
"You..." he manages.
Behind him, still gripping the sword, stands Zoran.
My brother's face is wet with tears. His hands are steady on the blade. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet and clear and absolutely certain.
"You chose wrong."
Father tries to turn. His legs won't cooperate. Blood bubbles from his lips, golden-tinged with light magic. "Zoran... my son..."
"You chose your pride over your children." Zoran's voice breaks on the words but doesn't stop. "Your power over your family. Your certainty over love."
"I was trying..." Father reaches for him, golden gauntlet scraping against Zoran's arm. "I was trying to save you both. I was trying to..."
"I know." Tears stream down Zoran's face. "I know you believed that. I know you thought you were protecting us."
He leans close, and his next words are barely a whisper. "But some things can't be saved, Father. Some choices can't be undone. And you made your choice a long time ago."
Father's mouth moves. No sound comes out.
Zoran twists the blade.
Father's body jerks. A sound escapes him—not a scream, not words, just a wet exhale of air and blood and light. His eyes find mine. Hold them. I see something there I've never seen before.
Zoran wrenches the blade free.
Then he draws his sword upward in one swift, brutal motion.
Father's head separates from his shoulders.
Golden light sprays across the mud, across my armor, across Zoran's tear-streaked face. The head rolls, coming to rest against a shattered wagon wheel, eyes still open, still surprised. The body stands for one moment—a headless thing in golden armor, light magic flickering and dying—then crumples to the ground.
Lord Taren Alari is dead.
The golden wall freezes.
Fifty elite guards, the Light Court's finest, suddenly without purpose. Their commander lies headless in the mud. Their lord—their god, their reason for fighting—is gone. The wall doesn't break so much as dissolve, soldiers stumbling back, weapons dropping from nerveless fingers.
Kaan breaks through.
He crosses the distance between us in three strides, dropping to his knees beside me, his tendrils of night encircling us both. His hands find my face, then move carefully to my injured shoulder. Even his gentle touch makes me gasp—white-hot pain shooting down my arm.
"Nesilhan. Look at me. Nesilhan."
I try to speak. Nothing comes. My voice has abandoned me.
"Your shoulder's shattered," he says, his voice rough with barely controlled fury. Not at me—at the situation, at nearly losing me. "Can you move your fingers?"
