“Her blood. Her magic. Her life.” Lakhu’s eyes gleam. “Draining a normal Fire-Bringer can fuel the Dominion Heart’s awakening, but only someone with her specific abilities—Fire-Bringer blood combined with genuine magical talent—could power what I need. She was the key to bringing my mother back.”
“Was.” I let the word hang between us. “She broke free of your control. Your weapon turned in your hand.”
“A temporary setback.” But his jaw tightens, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. “The ritual can still be completed. The Dominion Heart is awake. Your precious Fire-Bringer will be recaptured, and my mother will rise, and you’ll have nothing.” His voice drops to something cold and deadly. “Again.”
Lakhu attacks.
Shadow magic erupts from his hands—not the wild, undirected darkness of lesser practitioners, but precise lances of power aimed at specific points. My curse. He’s targeting my curse, trying to trigger the pain responses his father built into its structure.
It works.
Agony explodes through my chest. The shadows inside me writhe and twist, responding to commands I’m not giving, trying to tear their way out of my body. I drop to one knee, gasping, as Lakhu’s magic claws at the foundations of my power.
“My father created that curse to punish you for loving a Fire-Bringer.” Lakhu circles me, maintaining his assault, his voice almost conversational. “But he was always content with slow torment. I’ve spent centuries studying his work, finding the weaknesses, learning how to make it do what I want.”
Another lance of power strikes my curse, and I scream. The shadows surge outward, nearly breaking free of my control, and for a moment, I see what Lakhu wants—my own darkness consuming me, destroying me from within while he watches.
I force myself to my feet. Force the curse back under control, though it costs me more than I can afford. “You’ve been preparing for this fight your whole life.”
“Since I was old enough to understand what you took from me.” Lakhu’s attacks don’t pause. “Every spell I learned, every technique I mastered, every secret I uncovered—all of it building toward this moment. The moment I finally destroy the dragon who murdered my mother.”
I lunge at him, shadows extending into blades. He deflects, counters, his movements fluid and practiced. He’s good—better than I expected. Centuries of training focused on a single goal has made him dangerous.
But I’ve been fighting for centuries too. And I have something he doesn’t—something worth living for.
The thought of Nasyra steadies me. Her fire warming my shadows. Her voice telling me not to die. Her lips against mine, fierce and desperate and full of promise.
I press the attack, driving Lakhu back across the ritual chamber. Shadow meets shadow, curse battling control, centuries of hatred clashing in the space between heartbeats.
I’m losing.
Lakhu’s attacks are too precise, too knowing. He understands my curse better than I do—knows exactly where to strike to make it turn against me, exactly how to exploit the weaknesses his father built into its design. Every exchange costs me more than it costs him. Every clash leaves my shadows writhing closer to the edge of control.
Blood runs from a gash on my side where his magic slipped through my defenses. Another wound on my shoulder. A third across my chest, deep enough that I feel the heat of my own blood soaking my shirt. I’m slowing down, and he knows it.
“This is what you deserve.” Lakhu’s voice is almost gentle, almost pitying. “Centuries of suffering, and still it wasn’t enough. You took everything from me. Now I’m going to take everything from you.”
He strikes at my curse again, and this time I can’t hold it. The shadows explode outward, screaming for release, tearing at my control with hunger that’s been building for years. My vision blurs. My legs buckle. I hit the stone floor hard, the impact jarring through my wounded body.
This is how it ends. After everything—after losing her the first time, after carrying the guilt, after getting her back only to fail her again. I’m going to die on the floor of Lakhu’s ritual chamber, surrounded by the symbols of his obsession, while Nasyra fights to save Selene without knowing I’ve already lost.
“First, I’ll kill you.” Lakhu advances, shadow magic building for a killing blow. “Then I’ll recapture your Fire-Bringer. She’ll die on the altar, her blood fueling my mother’s resurrection, and the last thing she’ll remember is that you failed her. Again.”
I try to rise. Try to force my body to obey, my curse to stabilize, my power to respond. But the shadows are slipping through my fingers, consuming me from within, and Lakhu is right—I’m going to fail her again.
Just like before.
Just like the altar.
Just like three centuries ago, when I was too slow and too late and she died because I couldn’t reach her in time?—
Fire wraps around my darkness.
TWENTY-EIGHT
ZYPHON
Not attacking. Embracing.
