Ronin falls into step beside me, the two of us human among gods, our breaths shallow in the thick, cold air. Together, we walk deeper into the abyss.
Zyphoro’s sharp eyes rake the dark, fingers twitching above the daggers strapped to her thighs, while Orios’ gloved hand never strays from the hilt of his sword.
“No demons,” Zyphoro mutters.
Daed’s reply is low, edged with unease. “It’s been this way since they took Estra. They’ve sealed themselves in An’kel where they know I cannot follow.”
Zyphoro’s mouth twists. “She must be precious to Gygarth. To surrender so much territory. To let us walk his shadow unchallenged.”
A tremor catches in my chest, and the sound that escapes me, half gasp, half sob, turns every gaze toward me. I shake my head, turning from their concern, unwilling to speak my fear aloud.
Because I know Estra is precious.
She was precious from the moment she stirred in my womb to the moment she came screaming into this world.
But Gygarth cannot love, and the thought that she might be precious to him only as the finest morsel in his eternal hunger shreds what’s left of my composure.
“How far must we go, Rook?” Orios rumbles.
Daed comes to a halt, the smoke curling faintly from his armor as he turns. “Here. The void is only the veil between our world and An’kel. No matter where the portal opens, it will lead to the same place.”
All eyes shift to me.
Now is the moment I’ve dreaded. The one I’ve been walking toward since the day I woke beneath the earth.
“The blood of the Awakened opens the gate,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. “The earth will drink it… and the void will answer.”
The green flame in my palm extinguishes with a soft hiss.
I push my sleeves to my elbows, baring my wrists to the still air. The pulse beneath my skin beats in time with the trembling of the ground.
I lift my gaze to Daed.
“I need you to cut me.”
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t plead. We are far beyond the comfort of hesitation.
He exhales once and extends his hand. The shadows at his fingertips coil and twist, shaping themselves into a blade, a weapon both beautiful and terrible. Death Singer. The silver hilt gleams faintly, the purple stone at its center burning like a star as smoke drifts from its edge.
He holds me in his gaze, unblinking. His jaw is clenched, his whole body drawn tight as a bowstring.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs. “And I will.”
“I won’t.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Then a tremor of breath, and he draws the blade across my wrist.
Steel kisses flesh. The bite is deep but clean. Pain blooms white-hot, a flower opening in my veins, and still I do not flinch. The darkness beneath my feet quivers, hungry, drinking each drop that falls.
My voice cuts through the void, low and steady, carrying the weight of something ancient.
“Véthari lios an’thera. Véthari lios an’thera. Véthari lios an’thera.”
The words strike the air like lightning. The earth shudders. Then, with a roar that seems to come from the marrow of the world, a gate erupts in fire before us.
Flames spiral upward in violent columns, heat slamming through the air hard enough to drive the others back, but not me. My feet stay rooted. My blood runs in twin rivers down my arms, pooling around my toes before the darkness swallows it whole.
The portal widens. Its edges blacken and crack, spitting embers as smoke and shadow spills through like breath from another realm.
