And Eiren, trembling now, gave a soft laugh, quiet, bitter.
“Poetic, isn’t it?” she whispered. “A promise made… and finally answered.”
Maris didn’t hesitate.
She drove the blade forward.
But just as steel pierced flesh. Pain echoed in her mind.
Searing. Violent. Wrong.
Came from behind, her body arched.
A cry tore from her throat.
She twisted, just enough to see him.
Alarik.
His hand on the hilt of a blade buried between her ribs. Faelight gleaming cruel along the edge. His face slack, caught in some trance of divine control. His eyes, not his own.
Eiren’s.
A thread of her magic glimmered faintly around his temple.
And Maris, blinking through pain, breath staggering, understood.
She was not the only one the gods had touched.
She had given her power in love.
Eiren had claimed hers in control.
A puppet. One last blade.
The one person she’d never guard herself against.
“Alarik,” she breathed, her voice breaking.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
The grip on his sword didn’t tremble.
But Eiren…
Eiren was faltering. The blade Maris had driven into her chest now glowed bright white, searing holy light through the goddess’s body.
And Maris, vision swimming, lungs failing, tightened her grip.
One final push.
Steel met bone.
The goddess screamed.
And Maris, voice trembling, blood on her lips leaned in and whispered:
“You wanted ruin. Let me give it to you.”
