If I survive this, Lady Tavia’s people will have everything.
WhenI survive this.
“What about the attack in my quarters?” I ask, buying more time.
“That wasn’t us.” She circles again, both blades ready. “Someone else wants you dead, Cyra. The Architects aren’t your only enemies.”
The revelation should terrify me, but there’s no room for it. Not when Isolde is advancing again.
“Do you really want to do this, Isolde?”
That question makes her stop in her tracks for a split second. I watch as her eyes soften slightly.
“I don’t have a choice.”
I hold her gaze, both of us frozen in place.
“You always have a choice.”
Her expression twists with what looks like pain. “You don’t understand how this works. The Architects gave me purpose. Family. A cause worth dying for. When they give an order, you follow it.”
“Even when you don’t want to?”
The question lands. I see it in the way her grip tightens on the blades, the way her brows furrow. We circle each other again, predator and prey in this confined stone box. But now I can see the cracks in her composure, the hesitation she’s fighting to overcome.
“You liked me,” I say.
“That was the problem.” The admission comes out harsh, angry – at herself, not me. “I was supposed to assess you. Report back, and stay detached. But you made that difficult.”
Blood runs down my arm, hot and sticky. The withdrawal symptoms spike with the injury, making my vision blur.
Isolde continues, her voice rough with emotion I’ve never heard from her before. “Every conversation, every moment of real connection between us – it made the mission harder. Made you harder to kill.”
I try another of Ren’s defensive moves, stepping inside her guard,but she anticipates it. Her knee comes up toward my ribs. I twist away, taking a glancing blow that steals my breath.
She attacks with renewed violence, driving me back toward the chamber’s centre where she’ll have more angles to work with. I resist, clinging to the wall’s relative safety, but I’m weakening. Blood loss and withdrawal and exhaustion all compound into a perfect storm of physical failure.
“I joined the Architects to prevent another brother from being murdered by tyrants,” she says, her voice shaking with rage and grief. “To build something where power couldn’t be manipulated or inherited by monsters like your father. But look at me now – I’m the one with blood on my hands. I’m the one doing the murdering.”
She drives forward with both blades, and I’m forced to dive under the stone bench again. This time I don’t come up as quickly. My body is shutting down, the withdrawal symptoms reaching critical levels.
“You want to know the worst part?” Isolde continues, her voice breaking. “I don’t even know what we’re building anymore. The Architects want to burn everything down, but they won’t tell me what comes after. They say we’ll figure it out once the old order is ashes. What if we’re just replacing one nightmare with another?”
I pull myself up using the bench, every muscle screaming. “Then stop. Help me instead. We can?—”
“No.” She cuts me off. “It’s too late for that. I’ve already helped to kill Cardinals today. I’ve already crossed every line there is to cross. There’s no going back now, Cyra.”
She vaults over the bench again, and this time I’m too slow. Her blade catches my thigh, opening a long gash that sends me stumbling. I go down hard, my back hitting the stone wall.
Isolde stands over me, both blades ready for the final strike.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and she actually sounds like she means it, tears stinging her eyes. “I’m sorry it has to be like this.”
She raises the blades.
That’s when something inside me unleashes.
A shiver rakes down my spine, sharp and cold. The air seems to bend, reality tilting as dangerous emotions uncoil in my chest. The sunsigil burns beneath my skin, responding to mortal threat with ancient instinct.
