Page 78 of Burn of the Everflame

I grabbed the sword from Luther and, over his protests, slid its sharp black edge on my palm. As my blood trickled over the heartstone disc, the sword’s murky whispers became a screaming, sobbing wail.

A heartbroken plea—for forgiveness, for mercy. For the love of her children, including her son, and the mate she dearly missed. For an end to her torment. And above all . . .

For freedom.

A horrified gasp shuddered out as I let the sword clang to the ground. “The blade . . . she—she’s inside. Luther, she—oh gods.” I crumpled to my knees. “She’s in the blade.”

There must always be a balance.

Lumnos had put the sword through her mother’s heart, but it wasn’t to kill her—it was to help her cast the spell that cursed Ophiucae. In exchange for locking him away in the island cell, their mother had paid an equal price. The heartstone magic had imprisoned her inside the very weapon she’d used: Sorrow’s Edge.

“Diem, you’re shaking.” Luther grabbed a blanket from the foot of my bed and draped it over my shoulders.

A future taken, and a future given.

Another piece of the puzzle slotted into heartbreaking place. The Kindred said the heartstone’s magic had made their people immortal. Perhaps that meant only the heartstone’s magic could kill them. That’s why the Kindred had gifted Sorrow’s Edge to me. If I could not change Ophiucae’s heart and convince him to end his bloody quest, I would have to use the sword, call on the heartstone’s magic, and kill him—and heartstone magic required an equal sacrifice in return.

To take Ophiucae’s freedom, his mother had lost hers.

And if I took his life—I would pay for it with mine.

Life for life.

Luther’s hands cupped my face. “Your skin is like ice. Come, the bathwater’s warm. You can explain everything to me there.”

At the brush of his skin, my mating mark flared beneath the blanket, reminding me of the question I’d come here to ask him, and shock became despair as my world fell apart. After weeks of clinging to the promise of our bond as the joy that would make all my past torment worthwhile . . . I could not let Luther seal the bond.

Luther was young for a Descended. He had centuries ahead of him to live. If I died, I would leave him behind just as his uncle, King Ulther, had been left after the murder of his mate—ruined, half his soul missing, unable to ever love again.

It was a fate I knew Luther would accept. He’d been willing to stand by my side while I married Henri just for a chance that I might turn to him after Henri’s death. If a lifetime of agony was the cost of being my mate, Luther would embrace it without hesitation. He’d suffer anything, no matter how painful. That’s how much he loved me.

And I loved him far too much to let him do it.

I was a stranded mate.

To save Luther, I had to stay a stranded mate.

Forever.

Outside on the terrace, Sorae’s ear-splitting howl was the voice of my sorrow. Devastation devoured me, chewing up the last pieces of my crumbling soul. My happiness, my hope, my heart, all annihilated in an instant. My godhood did not break the bars of its cage—it melted them down and boiled them to steam, spreading and growing and burning until my spirit was a blackened patch of barren earth.

“Tell me what’s upsetting you,” Luther said, sounding so devastatingly concerned.

“Go,” I whispered.

“Diem, talk to me.”

“I want to be alone.”

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

“No,” he insisted. “Something’s wrong, I can tell.”

Again, my skin began to shimmer. My magic was rapidly spiraling out of control. I was going to explode, just as I had the day of my father’s death, and this time, it felt like I might take the whole world with me.

I pulled the blanket tighter around me, dipping my head to hide my face. “I want to be alone,” I said again.

“I refuse to leave you when you need me.”