Dagan’s gasp tears through me.
Not pain.
Relief.
Strength.
Connection.
He’s not alone anymore.
Not carrying the Marches on his back by himself.
I feel the other surges too—like four suns igniting at once.
Jules reaches Alaric—silver torc to throat, her hand to his heart—air and illusion becoming something truer than either.
Phoebe reaches Kael—ring to finger, palm to palm—water roaring clean and powerful, tides singing.
Delia reaches Thorne—bracer to forearm, her hand to his jaw—fire stabilizing, controlled, devastating.
Four conduits.
Four bonds.
Four pieces of the crown fused into love instead of duty.
Idris screams as his siphon snaps.
The corrupted ore ring around him shudders—then fractures—souls inside it shrieking as the power he stole is ripped out of his grasp.
“What have you DONE?” he roars.
Dagan’s wings unfurl to their full span, blotting out smoke and moonlight both.
He looks down at me, eyes blazing, and I feel his awe like a tremor.
“You came into war for me,” he whispers.
“I will go anywhere for you,” I whisper back, voice shaking. “You came to New Jersey for me. So, it’s mutual, apparently.”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile.
Then he turns, slow and lethal, toward Idris.
The earth rises with him.
Not just stone.
Not just roots.
All of Nightfall this time.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I don’t feel our bond flicker with fear.
I feel it lock into place like bedrock.
Because now?
