Page 122 of Cursebreaker

Morana’s lip curls on a snarl, and I see it, then—the bitterness in her eyes. The heartbreak. “It was Hildegarde who killed him, her own child’s father. Slayed him with the power of the Lightbringer.”

My mouth parts on a sharp intake of breath, my chest aching, head spinning. I want to believe it’s all a lie, but there’s something about the way Morana looks at me now—something about the way her eyes flash when she speaks about Hildegarde—that makes me think she might be telling the truth.

A single tear rolls down Morana’s cheek, her eyes blazing like unholy fire. “I could have used that power to make a difference on my world—on worlds like mine—but he gave it to her. For this wretched place!” She throws her arms out, her head tilted back to look at the black, starless skies above. “But none of that matters now. It’s too late to change the past. I couldn’t save my home, but I am no longer that scared, useless human who needed to be rescued. When I take possession of the Relics, I will show your King what true power looks like. And when he lies dead at my feet, I will open the gates to all realms, and with my armies I will finally bring peace to all worlds.”

“By taking away their choices?” My hand strays to my hip—to the empty sheath where my dagger would have been. “That isn’t freedom.”

“Peace is freedom.” Her expression turns gravely serious despite the manic gleam in her eyes. “I’m going to set you free, too. I might have set your family free as well if you had done what Azeron asked and brought me the Relics.”

My blood runs cold. I look over my shoulder, but Will is no longer looking at me. He holds my coat in his arms like a corpse as he stares past me at the altar, his jaw set, expression unreadable.

Morana follows my gaze, her lips pursing in a mock pout. “He begged for the chance to make that deal with you. I told him he should have slaughtered them all himself and taken you and the Relics when he had the chance.” She lifts her shoulders in a careless shrug, examining her long black fingernails, glistening like oil in the firelight. “I must admit, I’m rather glad you showed up empty-handed. I will not show the mercy he so generously tried to offer you when I take back what should have been mine.”

My heart thuds painfully against my rib cage. What if I’m wrong? What if I’ve made a mistake coming here?

No, I tell myself, refusing to let Morana see that her blow has landed. I trust myself to make the right choice. This is the right choice.

My refusal to break down—to plead for my family’s lives—must strike Morana, because she tilts her head, a cruel slant to her lips as her eyes flick to Will.

“Besides, I prefer it when Azeron disobeys,” she purrs, stepping toward me almost conspiratorially. “It gives me the opportunity to remind him whom he belongs to.”

She throws out a hand, and Will’s knees collide with the black stone with a nauseating crack. I turn on instinct, forgetting for just a moment that the monster writhing in agony is not the same boy who once made me a crown of flowers—who kissed me under the starlight and spoke to me with sprigs of blue salvia.

He clenches his teeth, but he doesn’t cry out, and I hate that there’s a part of me that wants her to hurt him. To make him pay for what he did to Jack and Owen and so many others. But worse, there’s a part of me that wants to intervene—to distract her from him. To make her stop.

“This isn’t about him,” I say, my voice firm. “You want my power?” I throw my arms out to the side. “Take it.”

Her eyes flash as she flicks her wrist, snapping Will’s arm. “Oh, but he made this about him the moment he bit you all those years ago.” She grins like a child with a secret as she makes a fist, and Will’s shoulder is ripped from its socket. “Azeron followed me during the Fall. Swore an oath to me in exchange for power, forsaking his life as a Nightweaver to become a Shifter. He was so obedient. So bloodthirsty.” She sighs, shaking her head, and the bones in Will’s fingers seem to implode. “Then you came along. When he pleaded with me to become a Changeling, he acted as if it were in service of me, but I knew what he was doing—I always knew. He regretted what he did from the moment he joined my ranks. He wanted to forget the centuries of bloodshed, wanted the chance to live his life as a Nightweaver. To have a family—to be loved.”

She sneers, and Will’s spine releases a violent pop.

Morana continues. “He promised me that if I allowed him to become a Changeling, he would one day bring me the heir of Hildegarde, a willing sacrifice.” Another shrug, her smile sinister. “If only you had embraced the gift he’d given you with his venom, you might have actually stood a chance against me.” She tsks, as if genuinely disappointed. “If only you’d waited until tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

My eighteenth birthday. With everything that’s happened, I almost forgot. It seemed like such a small thing—too trivial to celebrate in the midst of a war. But Henry once told me that all Nightweavers receive a surge of Manan on their eighteenth birthday. Some believe the increase comes from the True King himself. Others think it’s a curse, because it’s the one day in every Nightweaver’s life where their bloodlust is most difficult to control. Either way, it doesn’t matter. After tonight, I will be forever seventeen.

Morana releases Will from her hold, and he falls forward, his body trembling, his forehead slick with sweat. Slowly, his bones regenerate, a deep groan rumbling in his chest as his spine cracks, straightening once more—powerful healing magic unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

If only Will had used his powers for good, rather than in service of the Underlings.

Morana draws a knife, points it at the altar. “Oh well, it’s too late for that now.”

I will my feet to carry me forward as I say a silent prayer to the Stars.

Morana follows me onto the altar as the Underlings begin to cheer, the noise roiling my stomach. My ears ring, my breath coming in shallow gasps, but I continue to hold my chin high.

I meet Morana’s gaze as I kneel before her, my throat bared, and shout, loud enough for all to hear, “The True King sees.”

A promise. An oath.

My final oath.

Morana shrieks with laughter. “The True King sees?” she says, and I don’t miss the way her voice shakes. “Good,” she adds, lifting the dagger to my cheek. “Let him watch.”

The blade rips my flesh, and I’m blinded by white light.

I think about the day my forearm was branded in the Ink Haven town square, marking me forevermore as a pirate. Then, I told myself I would not scream. Today will be no different.