Every instinct I have, every lesson I learned in six years of slavery about when to fight and when to flee, is screaming at me torun.
But if I run, Vorak will kill everyone here.
He'll drown in the blood and the madness, and when it's over—if he survives, if the curse doesn't burn him out completely—he'll have to live with what he's done.
He'll never forgive himself.
My hands are shaking so hard the candlestick rattles.
I drop it.
And I walk toward him.
"Annora,don't!" Rurik's voice is distant. Unimportant.
There's only Vorak. Only the beast wearing his face. Only the man who held me last night and whisperedminelike a prayer.
He's drowning.
And I'm going to pull him back.
"Vorak." My voice shakes, but it's steady enough. "Vorak, look at me."
He doesn't.
He's locked on Rurik, circling, claws flexing.
I'm ten feet away now. Then five.
Close enough to smell the blood and smoke on him. Close enough to see the way his muscles coil before each strike.
Close enough to die.
"Vorak." Louder this time. "It's me. It's Annora."
His head tilts. Just slightly.
Not enough.
I'm three feet away when he suddenly spins toward me, and the look in his eyes—
Nothing. No recognition. Just hunger and rage and the curse burning through him like wildfire.
He's going to kill me.
I reach out anyway.
Touch his chest.
Andpush.
The magic doesn't askpermission this time.
Iterupts.
I feel it tearing out of me—hot and bright andagonizing—like something living has been sleeping under my skin and just woke up furious. Light pours from my palms, golden and searing, so bright I have to close my eyes against it.
The courtyard goes silent except for the roar of whatever this is.
