Behind me, reality stitches closed.
I follow the steeds, my gaze locked on Amara through the shifting veil of smoke. From the edges of my vision, the demons of the void stir. Their pale eyes gleam like knives in the dark, their whispers scratching at the walls of my mind. They stalk the boundaries, watching, waiting, but they do not strike. Not with the power I wield now. Not with Emranth’s blackened soul pulsing inside me.
There is only one they would obey above me. Yet he does not come. He skulks in An’kel like a coward.
Or perhaps he is simply bored with me. Perhaps he torments another now.
The thought guts me, tears raw lines across my heart.
It makes sense. Gygarth does not hunt me. His gaze, his fury, is fixed on Estra now, and that is enough to give me hope that she still lives. If she were dead, gods help me, he would already be in search of a new plaything.
My teeth grind, my fists clench so hard blood drips down my palms. Still, I keep my eyes fixed on Amara. For she is not only my redemption, she is my salvation.
Ours.
Mine and Estra’s.
The void stretches forever, a prison without walls, but with a flick of my hand, I tear a wound in the fabric of night. A flash of green sears the dark. Then light, true light, erupts, blinding, glorious. The sun.
I rip the rift wider, and the void screams. The demons scatter, shrieking as they’re cast back into their corners. The steeds explode forward, hooves hammering down on earth and grass as we break free.
They rear, manes of smoke thrashing, the sunlight stabbing through them like spears. Their forms buckle beneath it, the edges of their shadow-flesh tearing apart in ragged wisps. I raise my hand, and at my command they unravel, slow at first, like silk threads pulled loose, then faster, their bodies fraying into ribbons of darkness. Piece by piece they dissolve, their massive bodies folding inward until nothing remains but twisting streams of black mist.
The smoke coils toward me, wrapping around my arm like chains seeking a master, before streaking backward into the wound in the air from which they were born. The void hungrily drinks them in, swallowing every trace, and then seals itself shut with a final, shuddering snap.
The silence that follows is absolute.
When the haze clears, Amara lies upon the grass, just beyond the Grove’s border. No shimmer of magic shields her now. No time-loop binds her. Beside her, Reon heaves ragged breaths, his chest rattling, his skin scorched raw, his fingers blackened where power burned through him.
I fall into shadow, void-walking the distance in a heartbeat. Smoke swirls as I reform at her side and sweep her into my arms.
Once, I feared her heat, feared the fire that blistered my skin. Now, the cold terrifies me more. She is ice in my embrace. Too cold. Too still.
“She doesn’t have much time,” Reon rasps, clawing at the grass, blood streaking his hands. “Go, Rook. Now.”
I need no more reason to move. No more hesitation. I gather Amara into my arms, pressing her against my chest where her heartbeat trembles so faintly I can scarcely feel it. My wings flare wide, and I surge forward, tearing through the forest. Branches snap and splinter against the iron strength of my pinions, smoke streaming from me in thick waves that churn like a storm tide. The wind howls in my wake, a beast unchained, bowing the trees as though the forest itself fears my passing.
I race over lakes that shatter beneath the force of my wings, through tangles of vine and root, until the vine wall of the Grove looms ahead. But it is not the living fortress I remember. It is withered, scorched, torn open in places, its great heart wounded.
No guards. No sentries. Only silence.
I fling a lash of smoke forward, and the gate groans open under its weight. Screams erupt. The Tenders scatter like leaves before a gale as I descend upon them, my wings driving gusts that snuff their pyres and send tools clattering across the earth. Doors slam. Windows shutter. But I am not here for blood.
I strike the ground in a thundering landing, dirt exploding beneath me. They cower, but I spread my wings wide, and from the very pit of my chest I cry out, my voice breaking.
“Please! Help her!”
The plea rips the air apart. For a heartbeat there is only silence.
Then, a sudden whip across my throat. A vine coils hard around my neck, thorns biting, cutting deep. I choke but do not release her. I only clutch Amara tighter, even as more vines burst from the ground, ensnaring my legs, yanking me to my knees.
A figure cloaked in green steps from the shadows. She pulls back her hood, revealing a scar cleaving across what was once unmarred.
“You have killed her!” Mirael’s scream splits the air, raw with fury and grief. The Tenders flood forward, their faces twisted in horror as their eyes fall on Amara, bloodied and broken in my arms.
“You have killed our Jewel!”
Chapter 37
