“I didn’t ask for this.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tamsin says, softer this time. “It found you anyway.”
I stare at the book, at the now-still pages glowing faintly beneath Nolan’s hand. It’s all too much. I don’t think I can handle this.
A breath stutters out of me. “What if I resist it?”
Nolan's brows furrow. “Resist what?”
“The connections. You, Raiden, Kael.” My voice is quiet, and I can’t look him in the eyes. “If the prophecy is built on those threads—if I untangle them…maybe I can stop it. Stop whatever this is before it becomes death and ruin.”
Tamsin makes a noise halfway between a groan and a growl. “Linds, no. That’s not how this works. Prophecies are slippery bastards. They don’t unravel just because you pretend the threads don’t exist. Believe me, I know.”
“But what if this one does?” I say, turning toward them. “What if Icanchoose not to let it happen? If the connections are the spark, then maybe without them—withoutme—there’s no fire to start.”
Nolan looks like I just punched him in the chest. “You think cutting us out would stop it?” His voice is too soft, like it’s trying not to break.
“No,” I whisper. “I think it would breakme.But if it meant saving people—stopping death from dancing through every school like it’s already written—how can I not consider it?”
He doesn’t answer. But I see his pain plain as day—the way his shoulders tense, the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides. Not anger. Not disappointment. Only a deep pain.
Tamsin shakes her head. “Prophecies twist themselves into shape no matter what you do. You avoid it one way, it shows up another. So maybe instead of running from the threads—you learn how to wield them.”
I look at her. Then at Nolan. Then down at the book. The mark on my arm pulses again, soft but insistent, like itknows.
Like something has already begun. Something that I can’t run from.
TWENTY-FOUR
KAEL
The chamberof my father’s throne room is colder than the flame-swept stone should allow. But cold is the rule here. Cold and control. The air here always smells like fire that’s forgotten how to burn. Sharp. Acrid. Like memory turned to ash.
My brothers stand like statues flanking the obsidian dais, cloaked in the silence they were bred for. Not one of them glances my way.
I kneel on the onyx floor, fists clenched against stone that pulses faintly with the hum of ancient power. The walls flicker with veins of molten light—slow, steady, oppressive. They beat like a second heart, one that belongs to him.
He hasn’t spoken yet. Just watches me from his twisted iron throne, fingers drumming along the curved armrest as if he’s measuring the weight of my silence.
The throne behind him is forged from war relics and the remains of rebellion—a monument to victory and warning alike. He rests one clawed hand against the armrest, fingers twitching like he’s counting down to something only he knows. His horns curve back like blades. His eyes are devoid of anything resembling warmth. But that’s nothing different.
“You are late reporting and behind schedule,” he says at last.
I remain kneeling. “There was a disruption at the school.”
“A disruption,” he repeats, like he’s spitting the word out. “That’s what you’re calling it? She opened the veil, not once but twice. And yet, the girl still breathes.”
“She wasn’t the cause,” I reply.
A mistake. The sound he makes is quiet. But I feel it. In my ribs. In the floor. In the amused scoff of one of my brothers to the right.
“You forget your assignment,” Father says. “You were not sent to be her savior. You were sent to be her restraint. Her correction. A blade poised at the moment before failure.”
He rises, each movement precise. Controlled. Terrifying in its restraint.
I don’t look up. “There were complications.”
“Complications,” he repeats, tasting the word like it offends him. “You were sent to contain a variable, not to let her entangle herself with half the school.”
