“That will just make it worse,” Cygnus murmurs, utterly calm. “You need to clamp the artery.”
“Ican’t,” I sob. I can’t function through the pain. My magic is everywhere and nowhere. I try grasping for threads, but there’s only fire—fire and agony.
Cygnus is beside me, still calm, issuing instructions—even as I can hear more guards charging up the stairs toward the balcony—but I can’t find a thread to hold on to. I can’t fix this.
“Lyria, I can’t do this for you. You need to focus andclamp the artery.” He takes my hand, pressing my palm against the wound. Blood blooms over my fingers; I’m in a puddle of it now. “Now, Lyria. Do it now.Clamp the artery!”
I plunge further and further into myself. Somewhere, buried in the pain, there’s a monster howling, a soaring timbre that is somehow familiar. I feel pressure release. It’s Cygnus’s hands lifting as he’s dragged off me, and I realize that the guards have arrived.
We’re surrounded.
It’s too late.
NO.
That internal voice stirs.
This time I recognize the speaker.
Myvoice. Not a beast or a daemon.
A beautiful, glittery creature. The same one who delivered Finn from the swamp, who pulled Sebastian back from death’sclutches with a single thread, who restored Cygnus’s sight and opened the gates to Ruin.
This is not pain or surrender. This is power, unflinching. And that voice swells like a thousand wildfyres:LIVE, LYRIA.
I clamp the artery. I yank out the blade.
And my Talent latches onto a thread.
When I open my eyes, I see Cygnus being held between two guards. They’re holding him down as a third soldier in a VIA uniform hits him over and over. Hands close around my arms, and I cry out as I’m yanked to my feet.
IT WILL NOT END LIKE THIS.
“She’s here!” someone shouts. “Hurry, bring it over!”
More hands restrain my shoulders. I jerk around, spine torquing, and the world wheels. The tiled roof of the palace balcony rolls overhead, and then I’m shoved to my knees by the two men who’ve captured me.
A gloved hand seizes my jaw, prying it open until I hear apop.
“You’ve got it?” the guard holding my arms calls out. “Here, Roburn! Hurry!”
At the sound of Roburn’s name, time lurches. I don’t want to believe it. Ican’tbelieve it.
But as I blink against my fading vision, I can clearly see his approach. His face is grave, his gaze heavy. And in Roburn’s hands: the omnidraught.
“NO!” Cygnus howls. There’s acrackand another punch that cuts off his complaints. I want to scream, too, as Roburn slowly steps toward me. The bottle glints in the light from the torches that line the walls of the balcony.
Someone grabs my hair, yanking it back to force my face up. Moisture streaks down my cheeks. Blood? Tears? I’m not sure.
There’s one thing I know. Something I have never seen clearly until this moment: I don’t want them to take my Talent.I don’t want to lose it. I can’t. At long last, the truth plunges through me:
There is nothing wrong with my magic. There is nothing wrong with me.
Please, I want to beg Roburn.Don’t.But the soldiers are gripping so tight, my jaw feels like it might snap.
“It shouldn’t be done like this,” Roburn says quietly.
“Our orders—”
