Then he had to come to terms with his guilt. It seemed to wrap around him like chains, heavy as stone, but he was eager, desperate to help us undo what he’d been forced to create. He swore to weave the antidote, to right what Maximillian had twisted. But the thing with magic is that it’s always harder to undo than to cast. That’s why it took a village. Two weeks of backbreaking effort, hundreds of hands, endless nights.
And now here we are.
I blow out a breath. Here…we…are.
I should trust the work. The calculations checked and rechecked. The runes I carved until my vision blurred, each one redone until it was perfect. I should trust my instincts. But the last time I did, I failed. I couldn’t save them from petrification. That memory gnaws at me, even now. My throat burns, but I force myself to stand tall. Everyone here is trusting me. I can’t let them see how afraid I am.
The ritual begins. Fear coils in my stomach like a snake, tightening with every breath. My hands won’t stop shaking, no matter how I press them still. The circle hums with power, but all I hear is my pulse hammering in my ears.
Esmerelda’s fingers brush my arm, light as a whisper, but it feels like a bear hug. That one touch shaves down the edge of my dread and pulls me back into the moment.
“It’s going to work,” she murmurs.
I want to believe her. Her eyes lock on mine, unflinching, until I nod. Until I believe—not because the fear is gone, but because she believes enough for both of us.
For the first time in days, I can breathe.
The altar gleams in burgundy velvet trimmed with gold. Every time I see velvet now, I’ll remember Maximillian’scarnage, and the pure hatred I feel for him wants to erupt from my very soul.
But I push that aside. Now is not the time.
Candles burn at either end of it, filling the air with the scent of sage and citrus. Purple smoke drifts upward, curling against the ceiling. The council watches. The alpha watches. I don’t meet their eyes. I can’t. Not with the weight of their expectations pressing down.
I open the heavy, leather-bound book with all the research, notes, formulas, and backup plans from the last two weeks. Spoiler alert. There are no backup plans. This has to work. My eyes skim over the rites I already know by heart. But I cannot miss one word. Better to be safe than sorry.
The healers chant in unison, their voices unhurried. No rush. Nothing left to chance. Smoke thickens in the chamber, a veil between me and the crowd and I’m grateful for it.
I lift the clear potion, pour it into the golden bowl filled with lavender and rose petals. It looks a lot like the bowl they use at the spa when Leonard goes for his pedicures. I would laugh, but the tension of the moment is too tight.
The liquid shimmers, shifting violet to gold, crimson to silver, each flare lingering a heartbeat longer than the last. I stir with a silver spoon, and for the first time I feel nothing but gratitude for my farfadet heritage.
It used to be my fault line, the piece of me that never seemed to fit. But on this journey—through blood and loss, through the fight to free our families—I’ve learned that what sets us apart is also what binds us together. Our differences aren’t weaknesses. They’re what makes us strong.
I am who I am because of both halves of my blood. Two parts, brought together to create something whole. To be ashamed of that is to be ashamed of them—and I can’t be. Not anymore.
Despite everything between my father and me, I see it now. The weight he carried. The choices he made. He did the best he could. And maybe, in this moment, so am I.
Hands trembling, I add the final ingredient, measured to the last drop. The potion surges with color, the circle vibrating with power. My voice joins the healers’, the words dragging from my throat, thick with dread, but I force them out.
I will not fail. I will not falter now.
The full moon spills through the window, bathing the altar in pale light. Hours, days, weeks—all distilled into this moment. The witch speaks the final incantation, oily drops of darkness rising from the surface, curling in the air. I catch them in a vial, the glass hissing faintly against my palm.
This is it.
My pulse thunders as I step forward. The vial feels impossibly heavy. Every eye in the chamber locks on me. I uncork it, the hiss sharp in the silence, and raise it high. My chest feels carved open, but my voice doesn’t tremble.
“Let this curse be broken.”
One by one, I move down the long dining table. Figures sit frozen in eternal supper, no longer draped like corpses but still lifeless stone. I pour the solution over each head. Gold liquid glints in the candlelight, slipping into cracks, tracing down rigid cheeks. Every drop a gamble.
The last vial empties.
Nothing happens.
The silence is deafening. My nerves scream. My hands ache to reach out, to shake the stone, to force life back into them. But I hold. I have to hold.
Murmurs of doubt ripple through the crowd. I glance at Esmerelda. She smiles at me, steady, willing me to be patient. It almost makes me laugh—that she, of all people, is the one teaching patience.
