Blue for water.
Gold for fire.
Silver for air.
Green for earth.
Shards float up between our hands, hovering in a circle as if the crown has stopped fighting and started choosing.
Phoebe gasps. “Oh my god.”
Jules laughs through tears. “It’s working.”
Delia’s eyes shine, her voice a whisper. “It’s accepting.”
The pieces begin to shape themselves, responding to us.
To our bonds.
To who we are.
One shard stretches into a sleek torc, silvered and airy, light as breath—made for Alaric.
One tightens into a ring, smooth as river stone, pulsing with tidal glow—Kael’s.
One becomes a bracer, dark metal edged with ember light—Thorne’s.
And the last—the last piece in my palms is heavier than the others, warm like sunlit rock.
It reshapes into a thick pendant on a chain that looks like braided roots and hammered stone.
Earth’s anchor. Dagan’s.
My fingers curl around it, and I feel the Marches answer—humming approval beneath my skin.
We don’t hesitate.
We run.
All four of us, sprinting down into chaos with artifacts burning against our palms.
SoulTakers lunge.
Wind shoves them back.
Water sweeps their legs.
Fire clears a path.
Earth rises into stepping-stones beneath my feet like the world itself is helping me reach him.
The closer I get, the louder Dagan is inside me.
Pain. Fury. Fear.
And then—relief so sharp it almost drops me to my knees.
He sees me.
