A different pull.
Deeper.
Older.
Right down the spinal column of Nightfall itself.
The crown wakes.
I feel it like a tectonic shift—an entire mountain range groaning as it changes shape.
The strain on my magic snaps, sending me stumbling.
Idris’ head jerks up, eyes wide, staff stuttering in his grip.
“No,” he breathes, voice suddenly thin. “No, no, no—this should not be happening. What have you done?”
The crown’s voice—silent for so long—pours through every fault line, every ward, every forge, every bone of this realm.
Not a word.
A choice.
Four anchors instead of one—Alina’s voice whispers through the earth.
The bonds to Alina, Delia, Phoebe, and Jules blaze in my chest, searing bright, and power rushes down them like water finally finding the right channels.
I know the other Lords feel it too.
For the first time since this battle began, Idris is not the only one drawing from Nightfall’s core.
We are.
We are one with Nightfall.
And my Oona is at the center of it, hands on the fracture, daring to pull.
I bare my teeth, feel stone answer me like an old friend, and surge to my full height.
“Change of plans,” I snarl, lifting my hands as the ground beneath Idris bucks.
“We’re done letting you steal what was never yours.”
Chapter 27
Alina
The Last Battlefield, The Rooted Marches
I don’t know what to expect when we crest the ridge.
I tell myself I’m ready.
I tell myself I’ve seen disasters—collapses, sinkholes, buildings folding in on themselves like paper.
I’ve stood at the edge of ruptured earth and felt the ugly hunger of gravity.
But this?
