Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah. Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah.I think the words, holding them in my mind, closing my eyes, I reach for all of that emotion, knowing what I want to happen. Willing it to be so. Envisioning it.
The sword I made when we entered Frostwater Wood—I see it now, thrusting through the Eastlander’s stomach into his chest.
Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah!
The pressure weighing down on me slackens, and a crude gasp leaves the man’s body, a gush of wet breath across my face. I open my eyes to find him staring over me with an empty, lifeless gaze, a sword of amethyst light protruding from his gaping mouth.
When his death scent hits me, I lose any mental hold I had on my magick, the sword drifting away, purplish dust mingling with the still-falling snowflakes. The Eastlander topples, and I dodge his weight, slipping in his blood and falling flat on my back.
A noise reaches my ears as I stare at the sky.
Laughter.
I turn my head and spot the Prince of the East. His mockery lies on the edge of another sound—the rising cry of a flock of cawing crows.
The birds burst from the trees, flying high into the dark night, beyond the place where speckles of glowing, floating embersand twirling snowflakes whirl hand in hand. They fly to where the souls of the dead gather.
And inhale them—one by one.
I bolt upright, slipping in blood and snow, landing on my elbow with a bone-jarringthud. I look up and meet Alexus’s green eyes, shining in the night. He’s three strides away, Hel at his back. They each fight with two short swords that they must have taken from the dead warriors at their feet.
But Nephele is nowhere.
When Alexus’s attacker rears back his hatchet, Alexus raises and crosses his blades over his head and, with deadly force, slices them down, their sharp edges tearing across and through the warrior’s body. Blood sprays the snowy path, and innards fall, more crimson to add to this white graveyard.
The man collapses—the last of the Eastlanders—and in the next blink, Alexus is with me, drawing me to my feet, clutching me to him.
He fists in my hair, and his lips crush mine. “You beautiful virago,” he says against my mouth. “I’m so godsdamned happy to see you.”
I throw my arms around him and kiss him again. Touch his cold chest. Feel his pounding heart. Just to make sure he’s really here. He’s smiling, the way Nephele smiled at Colden. His dimple appears, the sight sending enough relief into my heart to heal it forever.
But how is he here?How?
He reads the question in my eyes. “The God Knife didn’t kill the prince when you cut him because it cannot kill with a simple swipe, only maim like any other knife. Though it is a god remnant and dangerous in the wrong hands, the blade I forged is only lethal to living gods because it can penetrate their bones. That’s all.” He presses my hand to his chest, where the blade had penetrated to the hilt. “It isn’t lethal to me,” he says, “because a clever sorcerer knows better than to create a weapon that can be used against him. I mark what’s mine. The God Knife knows me. It bears my rune. My name. My blood.Mine.Vexx could’ve plunged into my body a hundred times, and I still would’ve walked away from that ravine.”
Another kiss, deeper and so intense that I’m gasping when he pulls back.
“Get down!” Hel screams.
The crows turn and swoop, hundreds diving toward us in an unnatural attack. Because theyareunnatural. These things are not birds. They’re demons who steal the souls of men.
Just like their maker.
And I’m done with these bastards. All of them.
“Fulmanesh. Fulmanesh, fulmanesh, fulmanesh, fulmanesh, iyuma.”
I form the words with my hands, drawing from the torch fire around us, channeling all my anger and power into lighting these little pricks up like fireflies.
The second the fire threads form a flame in my hands, I will it skyward. The crows retreat, but I throw my arms out at my sides, spread my stance, and dig deep into my darkness, making those little deaths flutter with delight.
The prince’s winged demons catch my flame. The sounds that leave them are unholy screeches clawing my bones. Instinctively, I clamp my fingers into fists and squeeze until my fingernails cut into my skin.
The flames flash higher but then extinguish, and the birds collapse in on themselves, darkness into darkness. Ash falls from the sky like raining death.
Alexus stares at me in wonder, his eyes darkening with a look I learned far too well that night in Nephele’s refuge, one of ignited passion, as if he likes my violence.
Victory rushes through me. In the heat of the moment, with confidence and power thrumming in my veins, I turn toward the Prince of the East.
