Ruslan’s arm swung toward him, and Séverin heard his friends cry out at the same moment that Ruslan’s fist cracked into his jaw. He stumbled back, the dagger point lightly swiping against his throat, drawing blood.
“What are you doing—” he tried to say only for Ruslan to slam his elbow into his neck, knocking him to the ground.
From the corner of his eye, Séverin watched Hypnos and Enrique lunge toward him, only for the dead Fallen House guards to lurch forward, tackling them to the stone ground.
Séverin rolled over. When he looked up, a wind rippled throughthe branches of the upside-down trees. The divine lyre thudded against his chest. Séverin’s bindings slipped down his wrist, but the moment he could move his fingers, Ruslan’s boot slammed down on his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs.
“Stop!” screamed Enrique. “He can’t play it without risking destruction of everything Forged! Remember what we found in the Sleeping Palace?” He gasped, fighting for breath. “To play at God’s instrument will summon the unmaking. Everything Forged will fall apart! Wehaveto keep walking—”
“No,” said Ruslan, shaking his head. “No, we don’t.”
Too late, Séverin realized what he would do. He curved his body over the lyre only for Ruslan’s molten hand to snap out, catching him around the throat. Séverin kicked out, thrashing against him. He wheezed, gasping for air, but Ruslan’s golden grip was not human.
“I thought we could do this together, Séverin,” said Ruslan, “but I see now that my kindness has gotten the best of me. I don’t need your touch.”
He plucked the knife still hovering above his throat.
No, he thought fiercely.
Séverin tried to turn his head, to demand the sanctum of the lyre to rise up and defend him. Even now, he felt the rhythm of something vast and celestial coursing through his veins the moment he pressed his fingers into the lyre’s strings.
This is mine, Séverin told himself as Ruslan pried the lyre from his jacket.I own this wonder.
Only Séverin knew how the lyre truly looked when it was played—the light catching on the filaments and revealing a prism of colors, the pulse of stars nestled in the shining strings.
Ruslan slashed the knife across Séverin’s hand, smearing the blood on his own golden hand.
“Stop—” Séverin croaked.
Around them, the stones began to shake and quiver.
“It won’t work—” Séverin tried to say, but the words lodged in his throat.
Surely, it wouldn’t work.
Surely, it was something fundamentally abouthimandhiswill that made the lyre powerful.
Ruslan swiped his bloodied hand across the strings, and Séverin could do nothing but watch as one of those straight and shining strings bent beneath his stained, golden flesh.
At first, relief rushed through him.
Ruslan could not play the lyre… not even with his blood.
But the presence of Séverin’s blood on the strings had donesomething.
A low humming filled his ears. It bloomed outwards like a ribbon of ink in a glass of water. The air shimmered.
Overhead, the trees trembled, and tiny leaves rained onto the golden steps. The golden daggers dropped to the ground. Beside him, the dead Fallen House soldiers exhaled and crumpled.
“Laila!” cried Zofia.
No, thought Séverin. He threw his head back, desperate to see her. He caught a glimpse of Laila slumping forward, her head thudding on the stones.
“It’s working,” said Ruslan feverishly. “I knew it.”
Séverin threw off Ruslan’s boot, scrambling to his knees only for Ruslan to catch hold of him again.
Séverin knew he had screamed, but he could not hear it through the rushing sound of blood in his ears. The fragrance of orange perfume was gone, replaced with the smell of tears. His whole world reduced to the sight before him.
