I lift the dagger again. My arm shakes so violently the muscles spasm. I am fighting my own body, fighting the years of conditioning that tell me mercy is death.
"Imas," Leora says softly.
I look at her one last time. I memorize the curve of her jaw, the dark sweep of her lashes, the terrifying, beautiful acceptance in her eyes.
I cannot unmake this. If I let her live, I am dead.
And I choose death.
With a roar of pure, agonizing defiance, I hurl the dagger.
It flies from my hand, spinning through the dark air of the chamber. It strikes the far wall with a spark of flint and steel, clattering uselessly to the stone floor.
The sound of its impact is the sound of my life ending.
I collapse.
My legs give way, and I fall against the altar, sliding down until I am kneeling beside her. The connection to The Serpent snaps. It doesn't fade; itbreaks. It is akin to an amputation, a severing of a limb I have used to walk my entire life.
Pain explodes in my chest. I retch, my body convulsing as the last dregs of Chaos magic are ripped from my blood.
I weep.
They are not the tears of a man. They are thick, red drops of blood leaking from my eyes, staining my cheeks like war paint.I am crying my soul out, emptying the vessel so that there is nothing left for the god to claim.
"Imas," Leora whispers. She struggles against the straps, trying to reach me.
I can't breathe. I can't think. I am hollow. I amDfam.
But I am here. And she is alive.
I force myself to move. My hands are numb, clumsy blocks of ice. I reach for the buckles on her wrists. It takes an eternity to undo them. The leather is stiff, resisting my weak fingers.
I fumble with the straps on her ankles.
She sits up, rubbing her wrists. She reaches out, her hands framing my face, her thumbs wiping away the bloody tears.
"You're alive," she says, her voice thick with wonder.
"No," I rasp. "I am ruined."
I look at her, really look at her, seeing her not as a slave or a sacrifice or a poison, but as the architect of my destruction and the only thing worth saving from the wreckage.
"I am nothing," I whisper.
BOOM.
The world shakes.
Dust rains down from the vaulted ceiling. The stone floor beneath us lurches, throwing us against the altar.
A sound like thunder rolls through the bedrock—not the voice of a god, but the very real, very physical sound of an explosion rocking the foundations of the estate above.
Malek is here.
16
LEORA
