“You’re not denying it?”
“Why would I?” I pointed at the Triune. “These are the most powerful things in the world. Cities would be burned to gain this power, bloodlines had been extinguished. The Shadowlands—my home, and the only home my family has ever known—has been decimated for these.”
I extended my hand and my skin hummed from the sheer amount of power, from the way that magic made my blood sing.
“If I survive today, if we all survive Gravelock and his army, and what’s coming, then we’ll talk about jealousy.Until then, let’s just fucking get through these next…” I squinted at the hourglass, “five hours. Deal?”
“Deal,” he muttered, then stopped.
“Wait a minute. What do you mean if yousurvive? This is your family’s magic, right? Are you telling me you might…die?”
I shrugged. “Nothing in this life is a given, Storme. Anything in the ritual can go wrong, or…we could run out of time, standing here arguing like a couple of…”
“You knew this wasn’t a guaranteed success, didn’t you? Thirty years we’ve been helping you, and this whole time, you knew you might fail.”
“Die,” I corrected him pleasantly, moving the Triune closer together, my fingers burning, every time I touched one of the relics. “Not fail…die.”
“Don’t you think you should have mentioned this before? What’s the chance of failure? Five percent?” When I didn’t respond, he breathed, “Ten?”
“Fifty-fifty,” I lied, and then, seeing his face, added, “I’m only joking, going by statistics, it’s more along the lines of twenty percent, given the number of my ancestors who didn’t quite make the cut. The Rooke magic, it seems, is quite particular who it bonds to.”
For a moment, we stared at each other.
“It didn’t occur to me until a few years ago to go back through my family history and tally up all my ancestors who tried. Trust me, the failure rate was quite…eye-opening. But fortune favors the brave and all that bullshit, so let’s just move on, shall we?”
I hadn’t intended to tell any of them the truth. But Ryland Storme was the closest thing to a friend I’d ever had. I owed himsomething, even if it was just an explanation.
“Fucking gods, Rooke, twenty fucking percent? That’slike…” I watched him do the math in his head. “Those are not great odds.”
“No,” I agreed, stepping back, double checking the drawing in the Codex to make sure I had everything right. “Not great odds at all, and yet, here I am, willing to take them. Just like you and Lyrae are willing to stand out there and face the Butcher and his army.” I swallowed past my suddenly tight throat. “After all these years, I know I’ve never thanked you, but…”
Ryland—my only friend in the world—threw his hands up in the air. “Oh, fuck you, Rooke. Unite the Triune and try not to die. We’ll hold Gravelock off long enough you can’t blame me for this shitshow because you ran out of time or some such bullshit.”
“Well, try not to die, will you?”
“You too, I guess,” he grunted. “I swear, you are such a fucking asshole. I don’t know why I ever agreed to help you in the first place.”
The blood circle was ready—aring of russet stains that seeped deep into the pale stone, humming with the power of Rooke blood.
I knelt within the circle, careful not to touch the boundary. The family grimoire lay open beside me, its yellowed pages covered in ink faded to the color of the skies outside. My great-great-great-whatever's handwriting sprawled across the page in loops and whorls in a language that was no longer spoken in polite circles.
Or so I was told.
The Binding of the Triune, the header read, followed by a complicated spell, interspersed with detailed steps for the ritual, and so many hand written notes cribbed along the margins, there wasn’t a single blank space.
The pain was blinding…don’t stray outside the circle…do not allow the relics to touch.
I supposed if I survived and had any improvements to offer whoever came after me, I’d have to stick a note or two in between the pages. But I was the last Rooke alive, and this secret would die with me.
Of course, if I died today…
No, I wasn’t going down that road again.
This was the right path. My only way forward. And yes, eighty percent—and fuck Ryland for making me think this—weren’t the best odds, but far better than fifty-fifty, and the look on the arrogant bastard’s face had been worth the lie.
My magic was buried somewhere deep inside me; it had to be. The Rooke gift—the terrible, beautiful curse of my bloodline—had always run hot in my family. But in me, power raged like wildfire.
Or at least, it used to, before I’d been locked up in here, bound by wards and runes and ancient curses.
