Not as big as the old one. Not yet.
But the pattern is unmistakable.
A syphon.
And standing over it, hands stained with holy oil and stolen power, is fucking Cormac.
He looks up like he’s been expecting me.
“Nyssa,” he says, voice smooth. “You’re alive.”
Behind him, Finnian steps out of the shadow, face hard with hate.
I feel Dreven tense.
Voren’s cold sharpens.
Dastian’s sparks go bright.
Tabitha inhales like she’s tasting inevitability.
Cormac smiles. “You’ve come to stop us.”
“I’ve come to end you,” I say pleasantly.
Finnian sneers. “You don’t have authority here.”
I tilt my head. “Funny. The locks disagree.”
I step forward, and the air in the chamber tightens as if the world is holding its breath.
Cormac’s gaze flicks to the gods around me. He has no idea who I am now. He probably assumed I was dead. I mean, I was. Long enough for Rynna to be called this time, anyway.
Finnian raises his hand, a pulse of stolen magic forming—thin, weak, but dangerous enough if it hits a mortal.
He aims it at Tabitha.
She doesn’t flinch.
Dastian moves faster than thought and slams his palm sideways.
The bolt doesn’t hit Tabitha. It bends and slams into the stone wall, leaving a scorched line.
“Sideways,” Dastian chirps. “I learned something.”
Finnian stares at him in disbelief.
Cormac’s voice goes low. “You can’t just destroy this, Nyssa. The slayer line belongs to Order.”
I laugh.
Not pretty. Not kind.
“It belongs to the people it protects,” I say. “And to the woman carrying it.”
I step to the edge of the net and look down at the silver lines. They hum with hunger.
I lift my foot.
