Hers feels cold and piercing.Like blades. Like the spiked horns of a dragon. Like something that was once living and isn’t anymore. It doesn’t bloom—itconsumes. It doesn’t ask—ittakes.
“Stop,” I choke out, reaching toward the bars, toward her. Toward Dante. I push for my magic, scrape together the broken shards inside me, and try to summon something—any modicum of magic—to stop this. But it dies in my chest like a flame smothered beneath snow. My magic can’t get out because hers is taking up all the air in the space.
The seer leans into the connection, her hands still pressed to them both. And suddenly, Torbin’s body jerks. A faint glow forms, outlining Torbin’s body. It grows denser. Thicker. Then it moves, like a current traveling, like a lifeforce is being dragged from one body into the other.
What is she doing? What the fuck is she doing?
Dante groans once. His head rolls to the side, then goes still. His eyes flutter shut.
Fuck!Did she just save him or kill him?Please, no. Please, no!
A scream lodges in my throat, but I can’t let it out. I’m frozen, my fingers curled so tightly, they burn.
The dust begins to settle, and the torchlight dims.
The seer rises without a single word, her mask once again veiling her face, her hood falling over her curls like a shroud. With an eerie grace, she walks away. As if nothing has happened. As if she hasn’t just taken something from me I’ll never get back.
A thunderouscracksuddenly fills the air.The far gates to the arena explode inward. Stone flies. Shouts erupt. Chaos descends.
But I remain still.
Because Dante isn’t moving.
ChApter
Sixty
It takes me a moment to realize what’s happening. Splinters fly, dust kicks up, and shadows pour in like a tide.
Not guards. Not the tsar’s men.
My squad?How—?
Aila bursts through first, blade gleaming as she charges forward with a feral snarl. Isaac follows, loosing arrows with deadly precision. One sinks into the throat of a guard, but it’s too late. His dying hand jerks the lever next to him.
The cages slam open. The carnoraxis break free.
Giorgi slips through the chaos like smoke, already sprinting toward the far gates, eyes flicking as they map escape routes in a heartbeat.
“Mylo!” The word rips out of me, raw and breaking. “Get to Dante!”
He barrels through the wreckage, blood streaking his temple, eyes burning with fury and relief when they find mine. He charges forward, sword swinging as he tries to reach for Dante.
For a heartbeat, I can’t move, can’t breathe. My squad is here. We have a chance.
Behind Mylo, Sir Holden and Sir Donovan fight like men possessed. Sir Holden’s sword cleaves through a guard with ruthless precision, while Donovan plants himself as a wall between me and the swarm, shield raised, shouting orders like we’re still drilling on the training grounds.
I stagger forward, lungs heaving, and go for the guard with my dagger strapped at his belt. The side of my hand slams into his throat—hard. He chokes, stumbles. I rip my blade free and drive my boot into his stomach.
I need to get to Dante.
I don’t think. I run.
A guard lunges to intercept, but Mylo slams into him from the side, knocking him flat with a roar. “Go!” he snarls.
Behind me, Nadya cries out, her palms blazing with fire. She flings it wide—an arc of searing flame that forces a pack of carnoraxis back. The magic flickers and spits, wild and unrefined, but it buys us precious seconds.
Mylo crouches beside Dante, pressing trembling fingers to his throat. “He’s alive,” he breathes, relief cracking his voice. “But I’ll have to carry him.”
