“Leave off, Damia,” Phaia says as Yanda storms out of the room. I’ve never heard the silver-haired fae sound so angry before. “She’s just trying to stop you all from making a huge mistake. Being moored to someone without their soul is bad enough, but to go around messing with such a powerful connection…” The horror on her face surprises me. It’s as if she has some small concept of what I’m going through—and she thinks letting Leon die, and the mooring with it, is better thanthis.
But that’s not an option for me. I shake my head, and she huffs with frustration, though her voice is gentler now when she addresses me.
“We don’t know what might happen to a person who gives up some of their soul. To them or the mooring. All kinds of things could go wrong?—”
“As you said, we don’t know. There could be no side effects, or some I don’t mind living with. Or there could beterribleside effects. There’s no way to be sure, so there’s no point in talking about it,” I say. “I’m willing to accept the consequences—whatever comes. It’s my soul. I get to decide what to do with it.”
And I can’t think of anything more worthwhile than breaking it apart to save Leon. After all, I already feel shattered into pieces. What’s a few more cracks?
“What about what Leon would want for your soul?” Alastor says quietly. My heart sinks. I don’t know how much longer I can keep having this conversation before I scream.
“Don’t you want me to save your best friend?” I snap.
He shakes his head. “This is your choice to make—gods know Leon’s made drastic choices for the both of you when he had to—but I don’t want this if it means losing another friend,” he says. “And I know Leon would agree with me.” His eyes fall on Leon’s body.
I close my eyes. Though I’m touched by Alastor’s words, they don’t alter my determination.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but he’s not here to argue his case, and my mind is made up.” I turn to Mal. “Do what you need to do.”
“Morgana…” Alastor looks like he wants to keep arguing with me, but for once, he doesn’t have the words. He just closes his mouth and bows his head regretfully as Mal beckons Corrin forward.
“We talked about it earlier. What it would take, I mean. I can do the bit of this that involves blood magic. But we also need a magical proxy—a version of you that could symbolize your soul.”
“It was that stupid game at the ball that gave me the idea,” Tira says to me. “We can use shadows.”
“That’s where I come in,” says Corrin, offering a slight bow.
“Thank you,” I say to the crime lord, a little surprised by his willingness to help. Fighting together for Trova is one thing; dabbling in experimental magic is something else entirely.
He shrugs. “We all do extreme things in the name of love, Your Highness.”
I catch him glancing toward the soldiers, just as Damia looks away, her eyes landing on Leon. Fairon is standing closest to his brother, and I realize how quiet he’s been throughout this whole conversation.
“Doyouhave any objections?” I ask him.
He raises an eyebrow.
“You saved me already, Princess Morgana. It seems too much to ask for you to save my brother as well—at such risk to yourself. And yet, if your mind is already made up, I won’t argue. Filusia will owe you an immeasurable debt.”
Mal steps toward me, drawing the knife from his belt.
“Perhaps it’s better the healers aren’t here for this bit anyway,” he mutters.
He takes my hand, stretching my fingers out to reveal my palm. Unlike dryads, who grow up in Agathyre and swear the healer’s oath, he has no qualms shedding blood. Not usually. But now I see the hesitation in the way he’s gripping the knife.
I put my hand over his, guiding the tip of his knife against my skin. The cool metal grazes it, a caress that promises more pain to come. It doesn’t matter. Nothing can compare to the pain I’m already in.
He presses down, and I hiss as the blade slices through my skin, drawing a line of bright blood across my hand. Lafia steps forward with a bowl. Mal quickly tilts my hand so that the blood drips into it, pressing my flesh to speed up the flow.
When he’s satisfied he has enough, he takes my hand again and rubs a firm finger across my cut, brows furrowed in concentration. I wince at the sharp spark of magic, but when he lifts his finger away, the bleeding cut has been replaced by a dark purple scab.
They do the same to Leon, taking his hand and drawing blood to collect in the same bowl.
“We’ll need to do this in the entrance chamber,” Mal explains. “It’s the only place with enough floor space.” He walks slowly out of the room, carrying the bowl of blood in front of him like it could explode at any moment.
I feel guilty when I realize what we’re really asking him to do. Mal holds Leon’s fate in his hands—mine too, if the healers’ warnings are accurate. When we follow him out to the entrance chamber and he places the bowl on the floor, I touch his shoulder, meeting his gaze.
“If this goes wrong, if neither Leon nor I come back, it’s not your fault.” I look up at Fairon. “I don’t want anyone blaming him.”
