It was meant to be shared.
Idris staggers under the backlash of his own ritual tearing apart. The corrupted Ember ore orbiting him fractures, screaming—souls inside it ripping free like sparks escaping a dying fire.
His disciples falter, chanting breaking into panicked gasps as the siphon collapses and the power snaps back into the rightful veins of the realm.
Idris’ gaze finds me, wild and hateful.
“You cannot—” he spits, mouth foaming with arrogance and rot. “Only one can bear the crown! You are not Prime?—”
“I am not,” I growl, and the ground answers with a low, furious rumble.
I feel Oona’s palm press firmer against my chest. I feel the pendant between us pulse like a heartbeat.
But my brothers—my blood brothers, my bonded family—it appears that we are something else now.
I turn slightly—just enough to catch their eyes through the smoke and ash and falling embers.
Alaric’s expression hardens, all storm and command.
Kael’s jaw sets, tide pulling back before the wave.
Thorne’s grin is a flash of teeth and vengeance, his fire roaring hungry.
And I understand, in the marrow of my bones, that Nightfall is done being toyed with.
Done being bled.
Done being threatened by a man who thinks darkness makes him god.
“We four as one,” I roar.
The words aren’t just a battle cry.
They are a vow.
A binding.
A truth the realm has been starving for.
The four of us lift our hands—earth, air, water, fire—and our viyellas anchor us like living keystones.
Oona’s power runs into mine.
Jules’ into Alaric’s.
Phoebe’s into Kael’s.
Delia’s into Thorne’s.
Not stolen.
Not taken.
Not broken.
And not borrowed.
But saved by one another. For each other.
