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The bond was easy to follow. Cedric stalked through the dark, his very consciousness trailing that golden thread through the shadows until his feet touched solid ground once more.

It should have brought him relief, to emerge from the in-between and see Elyria in front of him—alive, safe.

Well, maybe not safe.

But she was unharmed. Because as Malakar leapt off the floating platform and dove down into the rushing river of mana below, whatever force had been restraining her seemed to dive with him. She exhaled as her locked limbs moved freely and her wings fluttered at her back.

But those few heartbeats when Cedric had seen his solimaeus suspended in midair—her arms and legs extended, the muscles in her neck straining—had sent him into a roaring, violent rage. He was single-mindedly focused on getting to her, barely even registering the fact that his crown had reappeared on his brow once more as he leapt from rocky platform to rocky platform, closing the distance between Elyria and himself.

He only felt her once he got close.

As if the power and magic pulsing through the cavern—and quartered hell, was there a lot of it—interfered with their connection. It was still there, still strong and bright and gleaming. But until he had closed some of the distance between them, she had been dulled, fully muted, like instead of a single door standing between them, it was a hundred long hallways, with a dozen locks on each one.

But as Cedric neared Elyria, as he stepped foot on the obsidian dais that Malakar had just leapt from, she came into focus. Like the first perfect note of a songbird’s tune, he could hear her. He could feel her. Cedric felt her surprise and panic and worry and relief of her own as she perceived his presence.

Elyria immediately flew to him, hovering a foot above the glossy black rock as she leaned down to scoop up her staff. “You came,” she whispered through their bond.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I hoped.”

Cedric didn’t know if she meant she’d hoped he would or she’d hoped he wouldn’t. He didn’t get the chance to ask.

A titanic wave of power burst from the Line below them, sending the obsidian platform careening toward the side of the cavern. Cedric leapt from it, tucking into a roll on the rocky ground right before the platform collided with the wall, shattering into pieces.

Shards of stone rained down on Cedric as he got to his feet, now on the same level as the Line. Liquid mana rippled a few yards in front of him, ebbing and flowing like soft waves on a sandy shore.

“Be careful,” Elyria said, landing deftly next to him. “The obsidian. If shadow touches it⁠—”

“Oh, I remember.” He buried a grimace at the memory of how he’d been blasted into that lake of fire during the third trial, when Elyria inadvertently touched her shadows to the stone.

But obsidian was the least of their worries now.

Blue-green light swelled from the Line, the middle of the river now a churning vortex.

Elyria’s breath hitched as she gripped her staff tight. The ground rumbled as she called her wild magic forth. “He could be anything now.”

Cedric straightened, the furnace in his chest simmering. “He will die like any other man.”

Light surged violently upward, a geyser of power that forced Cedric to turn his head in avoidance of the glare. Something glinted at the corner of his vision when he did, and shock pulsed through him when he turned a fraction more. Because there, lying on the crystal-flecked ground, was a long silver sword with a winged crossguard and an amber stone set in its pommel.

Cedric dove for Ashrender just as Malakar rose from the Line.

The dark sorcerer wore no robe. No wolven medallion hung from his neck. Like the mana had burned it all away, along with his former self.

Cedric had seen this before.

Malakar was a star-swirled expanse now, wrapped in sheets of white light. Pure, unfiltered magic solidified before their eyes, settling its shape as fabric that hung over his shoulders, draped over his frame—a celestial vestment, similar in sheen and weight to the robes Aurelia and Noctis had worn when he met each star god.

Because that was what the dark sorcerer was now, wasn’t it? He had the same aura of power, the same night-stained skin. It was dotted with gleaming constellations—the midnight sky captured on flesh.

But, then, perhaps some differences still remained.

No nebulas burst in Malakar’s eyes. No, those were black as the void—no pupils, no irises, no surrounding white.

Silver veins, thoroughly uncosmic streaks, carved down his midnight face.

And when he opened his mouth, no multitudinous, layered voice came out.