The sound of the world ending is akin to a grinding, tectonic roar that vibrates in the hollows of my teeth.
Dust rains down from the vaulted ceiling, a gray snow of pulverized stone and ancient mortar. The black altar lurches, throwing us sideways. The force of the blast knocks me flat against the cold flagstones.
"Imas!" I cry out, but the name is lost in the cacophony.
He is on his knees beside me, his face streaked with the bloody tears of his grief. The explosion seems to shatter the trance of his despair. His head snaps up, violet eyes widening not with the calculated assessment of a Lord, but with the raw, animal panic of prey realizing the trap has sprung.
Above us, the darkness shifts. A groan of stressing metal echoes through the chamber, followed by a sharp, cracking sound like a breaking spine.
A massive section of the stone archway directly above us gives way.
Imas moves.
He does not summon a shield of shadow. He does not chant a word of power. The Serpent is gone, and with Him, the effortless protection of a god.
Imas uses the only thing he has left. He throws his body over mine.
It is a violent, clumsy collision. He slams into me, his weight crushing the air from my body, pressing me flat against the floor. His arms wrap around my head, burying my face in the heavy velvet of his ceremonial robes.
CRASH.
The impact shakes the bedrock. I feel the floor shudder beneath us. A wave of debris hammers into Imas’s back. He grunts—a wet, guttural sound of pain that vibrates against my chest.
Dust billows around us, choking and thick, tasting of sulfur and dry rot.
For a heartbeat, there is only the ringing in my ears and the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing against my neck.
He is heavy. Dead weight.
"Imas?" I wheeze, shoving at his chest.
He pushes himself up. His movement is stiff, pained. He coughs, spitting red onto the black stone next to my head.
I look at him. A jagged tear has opened in the shoulder of his robe. Beneath the ruined fabric, the charcoal skin is flayed open, weeping dark blood where a shard of granite sliced him. If he hadn't covered me, that stone would have crushed my skull.
He doesn't look at the wound. He looks at the ceiling, his eyes scanning the gloom with frantic intensity.
"Malek," he rasps. The name is a curse. "He couldn’t wait."
He grabs my arm, his grip slick with his own blood but iron-hard.
"Get up," he says, his voice tight with a fear I have never heard from him. "We have to move. The wards are broken. The foundation is compromised."
I scramble to my feet, my legs rubbery. The floor is littered with debris. The air is thick with a new scent—not just dust, but a sharp, acidic tang that burns the inside of my nose.
"Warrior magic," Imas hisses, reading the scent. "He brought siege breakers."
He drags me away from the altar, toward the heavy iron door.
A second tremor rocks the chamber.
"Look out!"
He yanks me backward, spinning me against his chest just as a heavy iron brazier tears loose from its chains. It crashes into the floor exactly where I had been standing a second ago, scattering burning coals across the flagstones. Sparks fly like angry hornets.
I bury my face in his tunic, shaking. He holds me tight, one hand cupping the back of my head, pressing me into the safety of his body. Through the thin fabric, I can feel his heart. It is racing, a frantic, bird-like rhythm that betrays the icy mask of his face.
And I feel him.
