But no one looks too closely, too consumed with their own merriment.
All I can think of is Grand Cleric Beneveto, staggering down from the jail carriage with that same feral hunger.
Now, it really hits home why his chains were necessary.
“When the dead return,” I whisper, “They’re…hungry. For mortal flesh.”
Basten doesn’t have a religious bone in his body, but I swear I see him silently mouth a prayer.
Rian turns toward a group of young men singing bawdy fae ballads as they stagger drunkenly down the street. “You! Get out of here. You’re in danger!”
The youths laugh and push right past him.
“They won’t listen to you,” I say breathlessly. “We have to stop this at the source. Come on!”
I race down the street, heart rattling off-kilter, with Rian and Basten close at my heels. The crowd parts around us as we dart between carriages and carts, sprinting toward Valor Belltower.
When we reach the edge of the circular road, I come to a staggering halt.
Above us, a searing column of fey light pierces the clouds, shining like a blade into the heavens. The ground thrums with its energy. The bottom of the tower—once an unassuming archway leading to the stairs to the top of the tower—has become something else entirely.
A portal.
The arch now seethes with raw magic, a portal torn wide open to Volkany. From its depths, the dead spill forth in droves—staggering, snarling, lifeless things full of feverish need.
To the right of the portal, Iyre stands poised, graceful as ever, the fey needle in hand. Her fingers work delicately, widening the portal with careful skill.
Revulsion rises thick in my throat, but my gaze shifts—and locks.
Opposite her stands Woudix, shadowed in flickering black fey. Sparks crackle from his hands as he raises corpse after corpse, each one twitching to unnatural life.
My rage ignites.
“Woudix!” I shout, storming forward, my fey shattering through my human glamour like glass. “You traitor!”
I throw my hands up and unleash a bolt of silver fey, bright as lightning—but he pivots with inhuman grace, his own magic slamming into mine and dispersing it in a flash of sparks.
“I trusted you!” I cry, voice raw.
He turns toward me, unshaken. Hawk stands beside him, decayed and snarling.
“Lady Sabine,” he says, smooth as polished stone, “I suggest you return to your bedchamber. You’d already chosen your side when you bound yourself to that mortal. It’s the same side you choose every time. Thewrongone.”
My hands tremble so hard that my fey fails.
So, I step forward—and slap Woudix instead.Hard.
“You liar,” I hiss. “You made me believe you were with me. All this time, you were just another pawn for my father!”
He doesn't flinch.
“I’m the God of Death,” he says, voice low and dark, almost tender. “Why would I want peace, when I can have the world on its knees, endless bodies to fill my underrealm?”
From across the portal, Iyre lifts her chin and sneers. “How does it feel, Sabine?” she coos. “To finally see what was always coming?”
Basten snarls behind me—no words, just fury. His blade is out in one smooth motion, and he charges.
Iyre doesn’t move. She doesn’t have to.
