Page 355 of Burn of the Everflame

I felt Ophiucae go stiff. My fingers tightened on my sword, slowly angling it up. With him distracted, I might have the opening I needed . . .

“They loved their children enough to do the unthinkable,” Diem said. “And Luther loves me enough to—” She stopped, throat straining. “The only thing you love enough to sacrifice for is power.”

She took another step closer. Ophiucae yanked me back, teetering on the Temple’s steep edge.

Diem’s chin rose in defiance. “I will finish what they started. And if I’m half the woman Auralie Bellator is, then I’ll die proud.”

“Oh, you’re going to die,” Ophiucae snarled. “And so is he.”

I struck, slamming the Sword of Corbois into his thigh. The arm around my head jerked it to the side, but the other reached for his wound. Though it was just enough to spare my life, the movement sent me careening—right over the Temple’s side.

I hit the ground hard, and pain shot up my spine. Diem screamed my name. I tried to sit up and reassure her I was fine, but my body wouldn’t move.

I heard the sound of boots on stairs, then Diem’s voice again, nearer. Shriller. Saw the terror in her eyes. Felt her hands, trembling, cupping my face.

Ophiucae’s laughter rang out from the platform, loud and triumphant. Diem’s focus stayed on me, but mine shifted over her shoulder.

“Heartstone,” I managed to choke out.

She turned as a tower of light, as wide as the Temple, rose into the clouds. At its edges, the starry evening wobbled with slivers of color that looked vaguely like images—an impossible, flickering mix of sunny skies, thundering storms, and bloody sunsets.

With some effort, I lifted a hand to grasp her arm. “Kill him,” I rasped.

“I can’t—not without you.” There was a wild desperation in the way she looked at me, something deeper than a scared woman tending to her wounded mate. “Can you walk?”

I forced a nod, though I wasn’t yet sure if it was a lie. She took my arm and slung it over her shoulder. The numbness in my limbs gave way to tingling, and I managed to get my legs back under me as we lurched away from the Temple.

The beam of light yawned wider, and the sky quivered and bent around its form. To the north, the light fell in an arc and spilled across the island. Where it hit soil, a fracture formed and began to spread apart with a thunderous roar. It, too, trembled with blurry, confusing flashes—icy tundras that melted into a blistering desert, swirling over a dark, cavernous abyss.

“What is he doing?” I shouted over the clamor.

Ophiucae stood at the center of the Temple, one blood-soaked hand clasped to the heartstone’s glowing, jagged edge. His skin was illuminated, blindingly bright, and his eyes, once the same steel-grey as hers, were black as darkest night—and staring right at Diem.

“We’re too late,” she breathed.

“You can stop him,” I told her.

She shook her head. “Do you see what that heartstone can do? How could I possibly fight something that strong?”

“Diem, how many years did the Descended keep the mortals from fighting back by convincing them they have no power? The Guardians never gave up. The only power they needed was hope.” I took her hand and held it up, forcing her to see her beautiful, powerful, perfect skin and the light within. “And you, my heart, have a hell of a lot more than hope.”

Fear melted from her eyes.

Not like a shrinking puddle or a snowflake in the sun.

Like a pool of molten ore, red-hot and glowing.

Ready to be forged.

She raised one hand to the Temple . . . and she burned.

By the gods, it was stunning. After all this time, all these months, all the doubt and the worry, she let her glory shine in full. I felt the walls inside her crumble and a righteous certainty settled in its place.

She was striking.

Ethereal.

Breathlessly lovely, and knee-bendingly divine.