Present.
Watching.
Then—suddenly—it flares.
Not with fear this time.
With purpose.
A surge of awareness slams into me, as if someone just jammed a new data stream into an overloaded circuit.
My vision blurs.
The battlefield stutters.
For a heartbeat, I see not just the Barrow’s slopes and Idris’ corrupted ore—but something else.
The crown.
Sitting on its pedestal in the inner chamber of my fortress.
Four female hands reaching for it at once.
Alina’s is one of them.
“What are you doing, Oona?” I whisper, even as I hurl a boulder the size of a wagon down the hill, crushing a SoulTaker pack before they can flank Thorne.
She doesn’t answer in words.
The bond sings back.
Trust me.
Another wave from Idris hits.
My arms shake. Stone splinters. Blood runs down my leg in warm rivers. Behind us, the Barrow’s wards flare and dim, flare and dim, like a heart in fibrillation.
We are losing.
We are going to break—unless whatever Alina is doing works.
I plant my feet, ignoring the pain, and drag more power up from the depths, forcing it through the ritual’s drag, refusing to let Idris own what is mine.
“Brothers,” I rasp, voice rough. “Hold. Whatever happens next—hold.”
Alaric grins through bloody teeth. “For once, I agree with the rock.”
Kael huffs a humorless laugh. “First time for everything.”
Thorne spits a mouthful of blood and flame. “If I fall, I’m taking that self-righteous corpse-worshiper with me.”
Idris raises his staff for the killing blow.
The corrupted Ember shards around him blaze brighter than they ever have, the trapped souls inside them screaming.
The ritual reaches for us—claws hooked into fire, water, air, stone.
Then, abruptly, something else grabs hold.
