We collapse into the gates just as the sun begins to rise.
The Festival of Night is over.
There will be no Festival of Day. The dawn itself is as much of a celebration as Faros will get. Vayla will have to take comfort in the fact that there’s still a city for her dawn to touch.
The guards and healers help us in. Ronan is too spent to heal us any further, so we have to rely on the nature-born to do their work. The nature-born magic is slow. It relies on the body’s own processes. Given the right guidance, it can heal without a trace, like Ronan’s light can. But unlike his light, it’s painful.
We make it back inside. The palace looks as though it’s been sacked, although there was little fighting within its walls. The destruction of magic is near limitless. As wild as it looks, it could have been done by only a handful of people.
At least the walls are still standing.
People in black Vahlo robes limp through the halls. The elixirs have run out. So many of them were destroyed in the purge of the Guild. They weren’t safe. They couldn’t be trusted.
Quinn has been taken back to her chambers. She hasn’t woken yet, although the healers have hope that the poison may yet wear off. They believe Titus failed to get enough poison intoher to kill her, based on Ronan’s recovery. They’ve managed to keep her breathing, to keep her heart beating with their magic.
They’ve given her a chance.
I tell her I’m sorry as I stand by her side. I’m sorry I failed her. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop Adria. I’m sorry I let it happen at all.
I don’t know if she understands or if she would forgive me even if she could, but I tell her anyway.
Ronan takes my hand and leads me back to his chambers. We fall into his bed without removing our clothes. We sink into each other’s arms, and I sob against him. He strokes my back. He whispers to me that he loves me. He whispers that we’re alive, that we’re together. That we’ll make it through this.
He holds me, giving me comfort I don’t deserve, until my tears finally subside.
Then, we collapse into a dreamless sleep.
When I wake again, it’s night. Ronan is beside me, still sleeping. I brush his ruined hair from his forehead. I kiss his soot-stained cheek.
He’s alive. He’s right. Nothing else matters.
We’ll find a way to stop Adria. We’ll find a way to stop Seth, and Felix, and even Larus if we have to.
We’ll find a way to stop this war.Iwill stop it.
Even if it kills me. I will stop it.
I pull my aching body from the bed. I’m thirsty. I haven’t had a sip of water since last night.
I creep through Ronan’s chambers in the dark. There’s no fire in the fireplace, but I don’t need it to see.
I wrap my robe around me to keep out the chill. I open the door to his common room. There’s usually a pitcher in here.
Silence. The room is still, untouched by last night’s events. It will be full soon, packed with friends and family made soldiers and generals. The tiny markers on the map will move. They’ll move across the board like a game, only every time a piece is captured and taken away, a thousand people will die. Five thousand. Ten.
I know this because I’ve seen it. I know this because I lived it, for five years, I lived it within the walls of Pyka.
And here it is again. This time, I will fight.
I will fight for the right side.
I find the pitcher near a shelf. As I lift it, I hear a soft clicking sound. The opening of a lock.
I spin around but see nothing. Was the pitcher sitting on something?
I bend over to look.
I feel the presence behind me, but I have no weapon. I reach out with my shadows, but I’m too late.
