Page 115 of Death Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Once.

Twice.

Tegan whispered a phrase I didn’t recognize, something older than coven work. The salt circle flared bright-white.

The relic screamed.

Not with sound, exactly. With sensation. A spike of cold that shot through the cave and out into the trees like a shockwave.

Every spirit driven shell outside froze mid motion.

Drathar’s hand jerked as if his strings had snapped.

Dagna’s eyes widened.

Tegan shoved again, and the relic cracked.

A clean fracture split the stone heart down the middle. The gold veins flared, then splintered into sparks.

The calling that had been humming through the air stopped.

It didn’t fade. It was cut off.

Like someone had slammed a door on a scream.

My breath hitched.

The resistance in my necromancy vanished instantly.

It was like someone had removed a weight from my mind.

For the first time all night, the dead felt reachable.

Mine.

I didn’t think. I reacted.

I thrust both hands outward and grabbed the nearest cluster of spirit-driven shells like they were puppets and I was finally holding the strings. The sensation snapped into place with brutal clarity. Spirits snarling, corpses twitching, Drathar’s influence sliding off like grease.

Mine now.

I turned them.

Not gently.

The shells that had been surging toward our line pivoted in unison and lunged at Dagna and Drathar instead.

Dagna stumbled back, eyes flashing in fury. “No.”

Drathar’s expression changed, amusement draining into something panicked. He lifted his hand, tried to pull control back.

Nothing.

The relic was broken. His support was gone. The spirits inside the shells answered me, not him.

The nearest corpse grabbed at Drathar’s arm. Another slammed into Dagna’s side. She cried out, furious, and threw a spell that blasted two shells apart.

More came.