“This cannot be,” he murmured to himself.
Alastor stretched his hands out, drawing us a step back when something moved from the other side of the void. For the first time, there was fear in his eyes.
He knew exactly what was coming.
Chapter
Forty-Four
FINLEY
The cold pressedin so fast, it stole sound from the air. Even the echo of Zaicha’s laughter froze midair.
Alastor’s curse broke the silence. “They shouldn’t be here.” His voice came low and sharp, fear threading each syllable. His body was still in front of us, angled us farther back, away from the small tear that hung in the air. “Eiran, send them back.”
My magic still threaded between us, holding Zaicha against her will. Through our bond, I felt the barely restrained fury Brenton held on to and the edges of our exhaustion seeping in.
Brenton moved closer, one of his hands on my arm. I kept my focus on Zaicha, refusing to let my hold slip.
“Eiran,” Alastor snapped. “Now.”
But Eiran remained quiet. He stood, his usual composure fractured, his shadows slithering restlessly at his feet. He stared at his hands, eyes wide and bewildered.
“I . . .” His voice faltered. “I can’t.”
Eiran’s expression was hollow. Stunned in a way that even a god couldn’t understand what was happening.
Brenton turned slightly to me, his gaze on my trembling fingers.
“What is it?” I asked, attention shifting from Zaicha to the tear.
Alastor’s jaw clenched. “My sister.”
Eiran finally lifted his head to the sky. A quake in the air deepened into a low hum. The faint sound built as pressure pressed down on my chest.
“How?” Brenton gritted out.
Pain lanced through my head, and I stumbled, holding a hand to my temple. “Brenton . . .”
I pressed my back to his chest, letting him steady some of my weight while my magic thrummed beneath my skin.
“You said she couldn’t leave the deep ward.” Alastor’s words shook, almost too quiet to hear. “You swore she couldn’t.”
The sky tore open. Light spilled down in ribbons of color that seemed to devour everything it touched. The ground hissed as frost gave way to ash.
Then Leanora stepped through.
Her beauty was the kind that demanded notice. Eyes the same gray as Alastor’s, hair that looked like it’d been spun in white and red cotton.
The air bent around her, the shimmering returning with her entrance.
Alastor’s complexion turned a sickly, sallow gray. His hand twitched toward his blade, but he didn’t take it.
She smiled, slow and sorrowful. “Little brother.”
“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Don’t call me that.”
Brenton kept one hand on my waist, the other on the hilt of his sword.
