Gods, please, he must be lying.
My chest burns.
Alina’s face flickers in my mind—eyes fierce, hair mussed, lips swollen from the last kiss we shared.
He’s not taking that from me.
“You aren’t freeing Nightfall,” Alaric shouts back, wiping blood from his mouth. “You’re breaking it.”
“Oh, Alaric.” Idris’ tone is almost fond. “Still so enamored with your own illusions. Do you not feel it? The world wants this. It is sick of serving dreamers who squander what we forge. Sick of being a conduit. I am merely giving it what it begs for—a singular will. One mind. One purpose.”
“Your mind,” Kael hisses.
“Yes.” Idris bares his teeth in something that is not a smile. “Mine.”
The ritual’s pull intensifies.
Every time Thorne throws fire, it bends. Half of it reaches its target; the other half spirals back, bathing him in his own heat until his skin blisters.
Kael calls a tidal shield—the water thickens, darkens, then lashes back at him like a whip, splitting the skin along his forearms.
Alaric launches himself skyward again. The wind drops out from under him like someone cut a string. He crashes back to the ground, hard enough that I feel the impact radiate out in a circle.
I drive my fist into the dirt, trying to call up a ring of stone spikes beneath Idris’ feet.
Instead, a lone spike erupts beneath mine, punching through my thigh.
Pain explodes—a white-hot burst that tears a shout from my throat. I snap the spike off with a snarl, blood running hot down my leg, and force the rest of the stone to heel.
But it’s like wrestling an avalanche.
Every command I give, the ritual tries to hijack.
Every movement we make, it imitates and corrupts.
The SoulTakers surge, sensing weakness.
They throw themselves at our defensive line, uncaring if they burn or drown or shatter—because everyone that dies feeds the ritual more power.
We are bleeding from both ends.
“Dagan!” Thorne roars, half-mask cracked, eyes blazing. “We can’t keep this up!”
“I know,” I grind out.
I feel it.
Our bonds flicker with pain.
I feel them all.
Alaric’s connection to Jules pulses in frantic bursts—her fear, his stubborn refusal to fall.
Kael’s tie to Phoebe hums sharp and tight, his control fraying at the edges.
Thorne’s link to Delia is a storm of rage and worry.
My own bond to Alina… it’s a steady, unyielding line.
