“For my brother,” she whispered. “And for my father.”
She wrapped the chain around Vaelora’s throat and pulled it tight.
Steel dug into skin. Bones strained. Evelyne gave the chain another vicious tug before stepping back to reach behind her waist. From a reinforced loop on her dagger strap, she unhooked the short-barreled flintlock. With calm hands, she flipped open the frizzen and loaded the shot with smooth precision. Kaldrek watched her with a mix of awe and pride as she leveled her father’s pistol at Vaelora’s face.
“Move, Cillian,” Evelyne ordered. He didn’t rush, draining every last trace of magic before rising and stepping aside.
Vaelora couldn’t scream. Could barely breathe. But the panic in her dimming eyes said enough. She looked to Kaldrek, pleading silently with the son she had once tried to claim.
He stared back, cold and unflinching. “Do it, Evelyne,” he said. “Now.”
“May you rot in hell,” Evelyne spat before firing the pistol.
Time fractured with the blast and bone shattered. Vaelora’s head snapped back, and what remained of the immortal queen crumpled lifeless to the floor.
Chapter 49
Across the throne room, the remaining Noskari faltered for a single breath. Then they turned and fled, slipping into the shadows like ghosts released from their master’s fading grip.
Kaldrek’s stomach twisted. The Noskari hadn’t died with Vaelora. They still moved like smoke, their bodies shifting into mist with ease. Their skin remained gray, as if the dark magic still pulsed within them. Was it possible their power hadn’t come solely from Vaelora, but had rooted itself inside the hosts, drawing strength from within to survive? That was a dangerous possibility.
Her final words echoed in his mind:If you kill me, your fight won’t be over.The memory sent a chill through him, but he forced it aside as the sharp clatter of chains broke the silence. He turned to see Obren, Holden, and Alaric finally free.
Cillian stood over Vaelora’s broken body. Blood dripped from his mouth. His chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. He did not move or speak. He only watched her corpse, as if daring it to stir again.
Kaldrek shifted back into his human form. Bloodied and battered, he stumbled through the ruined throne room toward Evelyne. She was collapsing, and he caught her just in time, pulling her into his arms. She flinched when his hand grazed her ribs, and pain surged through him as well, a sharp reminder of the wound still bleeding at his side.
“You’re hurt,” Evelyne whispered.
“I’ll be all right,” he murmured. “It’s already starting to heal.” He blinked through the dizziness, focusing on the rhythm of her breath as it began to steady.
Vaelora was dead. The witch who had taken everything from them and ruled through cruelty and fear was finally gone. For the first time in Kaldrek’s life, the world felt lighter.
But freedom had come at a terrible cost.
The Noskari had disappeared into the shadows, and Cillian still stood near Vaelora’s corpse, locked in a silent struggle with whatever remnants of her magic lingered inside him.
Kaldrek knew what had to come next. He had to get Cillian out of the throne room before the shift back fully took hold. The first transformation was always volatile, full of raw emotion, confusion, and instinct tangled into something dangerous. He couldn’t risk Evelyne or the others getting caught in the storm that was about to break.
“You need to get out of here, Cillian,” Kaldrek shouted. His voice echoed across the broken marble. “Go. Run!”
But Cillian did not respond. His body buckled and fell, shifting back into his human form as he hit the ground. He trembled violently, his muscles seizing as if something inside him was still fighting to survive. His eyes rolled back.
Evelyne jolted upright. “Cillian!” she rasped, trying to crawl toward him.
Kaldrek pulled her back, holding her tightly. He couldn’t let her get too close—not when he didn’t know what still lingered inside Cillian, or whether the creature that had torn Ty apart might return. She was angry with him, Kaldrek could feel it, but everychoice he’d made had been to protect her. Even before his feelings deepened, that instinct had always been there. From the very first moment he saw her, keeping her safe had been his purpose. So he held on.
“Let go of me, Kaldrek!” Evelyne cried, struggling against him.
But he did not let go. He did not care if she hated him for it, so long as she stayed safe.
Cillian stiffened, and a stream of black mist slipped from his open mouth. It curled upward, dissolving into the air like poison. Cillian writhed as the darkness within him fought to take hold, but he shone with a fierce, golden light—burning from the inside out, as if his very soul sought to purge the shadows. His body glowed brighter with each surge, the dark magic seeping from him in tendrils. But the strain was evident. Kaldrek saw it in the way his arms hung limp, his strength slipping away. He could do nothing but bear witness as Cillian unleashed the full force of his light.
“He’ll be consumed,” Evelyne whispered, as though recalling a line from the prophecy. “To burn too brightly… is to be consumed.” Her voice broke into a cry as she turned toward Cillian. “Stop! You’re drawing too much power!” She struggled against Kaldrek’s grip. “Please, Kaldrek,” she begged, tears streaming down her face. “He’s going to lose himself!”
But he held her firmly, unwilling to let her near the volatile force spilling from Cillian. They watched as a final surge of blackness erupted from Cillian’s chest and his back arched violently off the marble floor. With a shuddering gasp, he collapsed again. But this time, he did not move.
“Cillian!” Evelyne screamed. “Let me go!”
