The three of us—Lords of Nightfall, scarred and furious and far from done—step into the circle of scorched ground where battle raged just hours ago.
Water roars.
Fire flares.
Stone rises.
For a heartbeat, everything is light and heat and pressure—and then the world twists.
I feel the Marches reach for me.
Feel The Barrow’s roots coil like fingers.
Feel Alina, bright and stubborn and mine, like a beacon in the dark.
“Hold on, Oona,” I whisper as the portal clamps shut around us.
“I’m coming home.”
Chapter 21
Alina
The Barrow
So… Jules almost dies.
That’s the part I know I’ll never, ever forget.
Not the screaming—though there’s plenty of that.
Not the sweat or the blood or the way Alaric’s face goes gray when her contractions stall and then start again too fast.
It’s the moment when the air in the chamber goes thin and cold and wrong, like even Nightfall is holding its breath.
“Her pulse is thready,” Delia murmurs, fingers on Jules’ wrist, eyes tight with worry. “She’s losing too much blood.”
“I am not losing her,” Alaric growls from behind the head of the bed, voice shredded. “Do something.”
“I am doing something, you overgrown lizard,” Jules hisses, teeth bared as another contraction hits. “Stop looming or I swear I will—ah—Alina, what was that cuss word you taught me?—”
“Later,” I say, my own hands shaking as I press a cool cloth to her forehead. “Right now we breathe, okay? In. Out. Stay with us, Jules.”
The birthing chamber we commandeered earlier is a riot of motion and magic.
The walls of The Barrow have smoothed themselves into gentle curves, stone shelves jutting out to hold bowls of hot water, bandages, vials of glowing elixirs.
Vines creep down from the ceiling, heavy with pale blossoms that release a calming scent every time someone brushes past.
Clarisse, acting midwife and unflappable goddess, crouches between Jules’ knees.
“The baby is turned now,” she announces with brisk authority. “But he is stubborn.”
“Gee, wonder where he gets that from,” Phoebe mutters, hovering nearby with a basin of water like she desperately wants to punch something.
Jules bears down, jaw clenched, knuckles white.
“I can’t—” she gasps.
