I prayto the gods that have never answered me.
I beseech the Stars that have watched idly as the realms fracture.
But I beg them anyway.
I beg them to intervene. To offer us a raft as we face the building tidal wave of Starborn soldiers and their insidious alchemy.
And Rhyven.His sickening smile still the fodder of my nightmares as he gave me up like a pig for the spit to Maldrak.
My magic is gone.
Duskae is a distant echo I can’t quite reach.
And we’re trapped in a Nullveil—a thin, disintegrating barrier that stands between us and certain death.
A distant, rhythmic pounding drums against the earth.
But it’s nothing more than background noise to the riot of thoughts that crash against the walls of my mind.
Kael drags himself to his knees, shaky and stumbling. The paralysis beginning to dissolve in his veins.
Darling, I need you to breathe.His voice through the tether is all calm and calculation. No hint of the panic that roots in my marrow.
“Look at me,” he commands with fierce, unflinching conviction.
Through the frantic breaths that rip from my chest, I lift my eyes to his.
“Magic never made you a warrior, Elyssara.Fury did,” he says, the words like a benediction. Then he stands on unsteady legs, strength gathering, and his voice changes into something lethal, unholy.
He casts his eyes around the Nullveil at our friends, and begins to stalk the perimeter like a beast hunting its prey. “This dome will fall. There is no denying it. Your panic has no place here. Your fear is not welcome. Bring your fury. Bring your fucking wrath.”
His chest rises and falls, possessed, his teeth bared.
“They think they can take our land. Our history. Our future. It is not theirs to take! This is Zerynthia. This is our kingdom! They are in our fucking home! Rip their throats from their necks with your bare hands. Send them to the Final Gate!” He growls the word like he’s a myth made flesh.
The Endbringer.
Teddy’s face twists into a feral smile as he drags his boots across the gritty stone to stand.
“They’re here,” he breathes.
They’re here?
And then I feel it for what it really is.
The rhythmic vibration of the earth pulsing under my boots.
At first, I think it’s the cannons.
But the vibration runs through my bones and I know, the same way I know my name: not an enemy beat, but a returning one.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound of staves striking the earth—slow at first, then building, rising, roaring like a heartbeat made of war drums.
I hear it through my frantic breaths, and it rips the panic from my chest like a hand.
Their skin is deep bronze, and on their flesh, peeking out from their furs and brown leathers, they are marked with inked symbols that coil like constellations across their hands, chests, and throats. Their hair is jet-black, woven into thick braids interlaced with strips of dark iron.
