He smiles through bloodied lips. A broken smile, weak and crooked, and it undoes me more than any wound ever could. “It’s a bit ironic that an arrow is the thing to take me out, El,” he rasps, voice thin as smoke.
But I can’t stop. Tears blur everything, smear his face into light and shadow. My magic sparks uncontrolled in my chest, the mark burning, desperate to heal him—I concentrate my magic on his wound, but Kael gently says, “You can’t heal him with the arrow still in, Duskae.”
“Then take it out!” I scream, jagged and raw.
“He’ll bleed out, El,” Kael breathes in a voice so soft it breaks me. Because he’s soothing me—he thinks Ronyn won’t make it.
“Don’t you dare leave me,” I sob, shaking him, my hands slippery with his blood. “Ronyn, you hear me? Youcan’t—I need you. Seren needs you. You’re the best of us, the optimist?—”
“The best archer in Aevryn,” he croaks through the blood, not even the looming Final Gate enough to quell his jokes.
I try to breathe a ragged laugh, but it comes out a strangled cry.
His hand—gods, his hand—is cold when it brushes my cheek. “Forgive him, El,” he whispers. His eyes find mine, fierce even as the light fades. “And finish this. You… were always meant to.”
I notice Seren holding his hand. Perhaps she’s been here the whole time. I don’t know.
Ronyn is too good. Too light. Too full of life to have it ripped from his body.
Kael and Therion kneel at his side, Morrathys hovering over us all. They know. They know this is it.
No!
But Morrathys does something unexpected. He holds arrows across the palms of his hands in some sort of rite. “I bless these weapons with the might of the gods. I bestow the bearer, Ronyn Holt, with these weapons for his courage, bravery and loyalty in the face of battle. May these weapons bind to him, and serve him now and in every life hereafter,” he bellows.
I sob, uncertain of whatever is transpiring.A divine blessing? A sacred rite for the journey to the Final Gate?
The air trembles, humming with power as if the world itself recognizes his words.
The arrows bow around his words, responding to something divine and ancient.
He passes the arrows down to Kael and Therion, their calloused hands gripping the shafts. The arrowhead is different, though. A dark, metal head glints in the night air, and I knowit’s not normal. It’s the same metal as Kael’s swords. The kind of metal that feelsother.
They lay the arrows on his chest, pressing their palms across the shafts and into his flesh.
Ronyn’s glassy stare locks on Kael’s, searching.
“The first god metal archer in Aevryn,” Kael manages, voice breaking. “May the Stars welcome you as you pass through the Final Gate… brother.”
“Brother,” Therion echoes, voice thick with emotion.
Ronyn sucks in a garbled breath, and smiles, his eyes glassy with tears.
“Brothers,” he whispers fondly.
And then?—
His gaze goes distant. His chest shudders once. Stops.
The silence that follows is unbearable. I press my forehead to his, rocking, keening, a wounded animal. The world should end with him. Itshould. Because how can I breathe, how can I fight, how can Ibe, when Ronyn is nothing but stillness in my arms?
And that’s when I know what I need to do.
I scramble for the clasp of the Heart of Ashara that hangs from my neck. “Get it off. Get it off,” I panic, and the others watch. Hesitation heavy in the air, as if they’re nervous to give me false hope.
You will know when and how to awaken the Flame-heart. There will come a time when you will be faced with loss, and you will know.
Nehvara’s words fill my mind.
