She will rip the marrow from your very bones.
As I tear across the stage, golden Craft blooms to the surface, so hot it scorches the soles of my feet, flooding the auditorium.
But the power isn’t mine. It’s Jude’s. He’s siphoning it, pulling every bit of Craft left in the grand illusion of the Playhouse. Gold oozes through the cracks of the stage like an open wound, rushing over the ground and toward its keeper in a brilliant tidal wave.
Immortality takes from you.His words ring loud in my head, snatch the breath from my lungs.And power. Gods, power takes more.
If Nyxene doesn’t kill him, pulling this much Craft into his body to try to shield himself from her will.
A twisted limb of shadow lurches into my path, and the marble between Jude and me shatters on impact. I scream, covering my eyes and searching for a way around the debris as Jude calls out,“Riven!”
I jerk my chin up, and my heart stumbles at the sight of strips of his skin peeling,melting. Craft burns through his blood and what’s left of his costume as he restrains Sil’s outraged attempts to break free.
Power breaks you into pieces you never knew were there, Jude told me once.It all comes at a cost.
Nyxene surges after him in sharp, twitching movements, her hissing whispers swelling into shrieks.
Through the light, Jude’s eyes burn like hellfire.“Script!”
The word slams into me, pushing me into action.
I whirl to where Sil dropped the Script to the ground, like all the answers will be written out on the floor around it. What does he mean? I can’t touch it. Gene did. She ripped pages out, and it did nothing.
Riven. Script.At those words, the world tilts. The fleeting image of Gene’s last moments—her very same last words—blazes across my mind.No. No. No—
Still, I grasp for the Script—but my vision scorches white, and I snatch my hand back. Damn it.Damn it.
My heart thunders in my chest. Jude bought me time. He bought me time, and I can’t waste it. But this is one of those instances where I sincerely wish Judedidn’thave unhinged confidence in my capabilities. Because I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to save either of us.
What feels like a blizzard hails over the stage, freezing my hands as Nyxene screeches past.
I jerk my head up, like I’ll be able to decode what the hell he means through looks alone, only to see shadows hacking through the golden veil of Craft Jude is desperately wedging between himself and Nyxene, every muscle in his body straining with the effort. Still, he won’t release Sil, dragging him farther.
A flash of terror scorches through me as a jagged claw emerges from the dark like an onyx blade.
And rips into Jude’s shoulder.
His scream slices through the air, unholy and otherworldly, shaking the foundations of the stage. Overhead, Craft bleeds down the walls, like the whole Playhouse cries with him.
At the call, I bolt across the stage without thinking, running at Jude and abandoning the Script—and whatever he meant—behind me.
But Nyxene is faster. One of those branch-like limbs lashes out, and a night-black talon slices at my neck. I choke, warmth flooding down my collarbones as I grab at my throat, gasping as Craft pours out from the wound—
When my hand brushes something. A chain hanging there at my neck.
A vial.
Script.
My world freezes.
I turn and face the Script, grabbing the Eleutheraen gold at my neck. A little prop Sil didn’t know I had. The chain clatters to the stage as I tear it from my throat, and I feel the earth rumbling beneath me as I run.
Ripping those pages out won’t change what’s been written. But maybe—
Jude lets out another wretched cry, and the sound nearly drains what willpower I have left to keep my legs from locking as I bolt in the opposite direction across the platform and land before the Script lying open on the ground.
It thrums with power, brimming with every character we have ever played. With every story we have ever performed.
