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Lyra

Gods, please be another twisted blood cast. Kael, or a man who looked like a twisted version of him, slammed his heavy seax against Roark’s ax.

Seasons as the Sentry made Roark Ashwood a deadly opponent. His weapon was smaller, but in one swift motion, Roark had a dagger drawn in his other hand and slashed it over Kael’s gambeson.

“Kael!” I screamed, rushing for Roark. “Stop this!”

His gaze found me over Roark’s head. Dark, deadened. Those were not the playful, mischievous eyes of the boy I knew. Cruelty, hatred, and violence replaced the light he always carried.

Berserksgangur.

My insides backflipped. Kael was broader than he’d once been. His thighs were bulky, as though stones were stuffed beneath his trousers. His jaw was too square, and his forearms rippled like divots were carved into his bones.

No. Gods, no. Fadey had melded him. Time and again, that bastard had forced soul bones beneath Kael’s flesh.

He was a Berserkir.

No mistake, Fadey would’ve chosen the most corrupt of all soul bones, forcing Kael to blot out the goodness and honor of his soul and turn it into twisted, bloodthirsty impulses.

Another cry tore from my throat. Pain, anguish, guilt—all of it encircled my heart. More Stav kept coming. I turned away from Kael and fired.

Fibers of craft had little time to shape around the bone shafts of the arrows, but still I connected them with the bones of guard after guard.

Blood stained the soil.

I ran forward, desperate to reach the two men who mattered most to me. Each striking to kill the other.

Skul Drek’s shadows were frantically attacking. Roark held control of his split soul, using the shadows to carve into the Stav Guard until they wobbled on their feet. Auki, Thane, and Gunter cut them down in the next breath.

More and more, the attack was dying out, but not Kael and Roark. Pounding steps raced beside me.

“Kyrre!” I pointed toward Roark. “Go to him.”

I was not bonded to the fara wolf, but he quickened his pace all the same. I didn’t flinch when Kyrre leapt onto Kael’s back. I wanted the beast to dig into his skin, to give us time to stop him. To save him.

Kael roared in frustration.

He swung his arm, and Kyrre, the swiftly growing wolf pup, was flung to the side. When he landed, he let out a whimper and tried to stand again, but Roark waved one hand and the pup halted.

Kael was too strong for a young wolf.

Roark stumbled against Kael’s relentless strikes. My husband was formidable, nearly impossible to best in a fight, but to control so much craft, to take so many souls, and to keep his strikes sure against a Berserkir—Roark was losing.

Kael brought down his sword against Roark’s ax. It dropped my husband to his knees.

“Kael, stop! Gods, please!” I skidded in front of them.

My brother’s sword was pressed to Roark’s throat. Both men breathed in heavy, rough gasps. With an ugly sneer on his face, Kael gripped Roark’s hair and forced him to face me, the sword against his pulse.

Inky night surrounded me like a cloak. The touch of Skul Drek curled around my wrists, a tether. A silent warning I was not to take a step closer.

“This is not you, Kael. They’ve corrupted you.”

He laughed. “I’m seeing more clearly than I ever have, Lyra. And you were warned about this. If you have come here unprepared, that is your fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

Kael tilted his head but tightened his grip on Roark’s hair. “You are to bring what you find over the ledges back to Stonegate. Or”—he pressed the edge of his blade against Roark’s throat until a trickle of blood trailed down his skin—“the poor Sentry will die. His life is in your hands, Lyra. Make your choice.”