I don’t stop.
Ulrik’s void-fire falters under my assault. His eight centuries of wards begin to crack, to shatter, ancient protections dissolving under power they were never designed to withstand. I see fear flicker in those obsidian eyes—real fear, perhaps for the first time in his existence.
He charges me, massive void-black form closing the distance. Auren intercepts—gold-white scales meeting starless void, ice against shadow. They tear at each other, and I see Auren stagger under the force of Ulrik’s strikes.
No. I won’t let him fall. Won’t let another person I love die because of the Shadow Clan’s hunger.
Love. The word burns through me brighter than the Crown’s fire. I love him. I love him, and I’m dying, and I haven’t told him.
The Crown’s power surges in response—feeding on that emotion, on the desperate need to protect what’s mine. I raise my hands and unleash everything I have left.
White fire explodes across the throne room.
It wraps around Ulrik, burning through his shadows, searing his void-black scales. He screams—a sound I suspect he hasn’t made in centuries—and pulls back from Auren. My dragon retreats to my side, blood dripping from wounds where void-fire touched him.
“What are you?” Ulrik’s voice has lost its cold certainty. “No Fire-Bringer has this power?—”
“I’m both.” The words come out slurred. My tongue feels thick. My vision is narrowing, darkness creeping in from theedges that has nothing to do with Ulrik’s shadows. “Fire-Bringer and witch. And I’m going to kill you. Even if it kills me.”
“Tamsin, stop—” Auren’s voice, desperate now. He’s shifted back to human form, reaching for me, his face pale with terror. “The Crown is destroying you?—”
“I know.” I meet his eyes. Golden, beautiful, full of fear for me. “I’m sorry.”
I turn back to Ulrik and pour every last drop of power into the final strike.
The blast strips away his remaining wards. Tears through protections that have kept him safe for centuries. Burns the shadow magic from his scales until they’re just scales—ancient, powerful, but mortal. Vulnerable.
Ulrik collapses, his massive dragon form crashing against the cracked obsidian floor.
And I collapse with him.
The floor iscold against my cheek.
I can’t feel my hands. Can’t feel much of anything, actually—just a distant awareness that I’m lying on obsidian, that blood is pooling beneath my face, that the Crown is still blazing above my head even though I don’t have the strength to wield it anymore.
Seal it, some distant part of my mind whispers. You have to seal it or it will drain you completely.
I reach for my witch magic. The part of me that can close what Fire-Bringer flame opened.
I can barely find it. The Crown has burned through so much of me that even my magic feels hollow, guttered, a candle flame where an inferno used to burn.
“Tamsin!” Hands on my face—cold, familiar, desperate. Auren. He’s pulling me into his arms, cradling me against his chest. His voice sounds wrong. Broken in ways I’ve never heard from him. “Tamsin, look at me. Stay with me.”
I try to open my eyes. When did I close them?
“The Crown.” My voice comes out as a rasp. “Have to seal it.”
“Forget the Crown. You’re dying?—”
“If I don’t seal it, I’ll die faster.” The logic cuts through the haze. The Crown is still open, still draining me. Every second it blazes is a second closer to death. “Help me. Please.”
His arms tighten around me. I feel his cold seeping into my fevered skin—and somehow, impossibly, it helps. His ice against my fire. Cooling the burn that’s consuming me from within.
“Tell me what to do.”
“Just hold me.” I reach for the witch magic again, using his cold as an anchor. “Don’t let go.”
The sealing is agony. The Crown fights me—it doesn’t want to return to dormancy, doesn’t want to lose its hold on the life force it’s been drinking. But I’m stubborn, and I’m desperate, and I have someone to live for.
