Page 211 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

I closed my eyes, reaching for the well of dominion magic that resided within me. It rose eagerly to my call, dark and hungry. Through my connection with Arabella, I could feel the Heirloom’s power joining with mine, amplifying it to levels I’d never experienced before.

The voice in my head grew more insistent.

Yes. Show them what true dominion can do.

I opened my eyes, directing my gaze to the empty space before me. “Begin.”

Griffin pressed his hands to the runes, and they flared to life, glowing with an eerie purple light. The magic surged through the pattern, following the paths he’d laid out, gathering and focusing at the center where I stood.

I raised my hands, channeling the power through my body. The runes beneath my skin burned white-hot, and I could feel sweat beading on my forehead from the effort. The air around me began to distort, reality bending to my will.

A small tear appeared in the fabric of space, no larger than my hand. I pushed more power into it, forcing it to expand. The tear widened, edges fraying as it struggled against the natural order of things. It was like trying to rip open a steel door with my bare hands—possible, with enough strength, but requiring a level of effort that bordered on agony.

The voice grew louder still, almost drowning out my own thoughts.

More. Take more. Break through.

I reached deeper, drawing on reserves of power I hadn’t known I possessed, and finally… drawing on the power of the ley lines beneath the God Spire. The Heirloom’s energy flowed through our connection, a torrent of ancient magic that made my blood sing. The tear in reality expanded rapidly, growing until it was the size of a doorway, then a carriage, then larger still.

Through the portal, I could see the outskirts of Sunspire, Solandris’s capital city just beyond the famous Golden Rose Fields. Except the fields, which should have been a sea of shimmering gold, were black—the roses withered and dead, their once vibrant petals now charred husks.

“The roses,” Arabella gasped, stepping closer to the portal. “They’re—”

“Dead,” I bit out. “Auremar’s work, no doubt.”

The implications were clear and disturbing. The Golden Roses were more than just Solandris’s most precious export—they were conduits to the Shadow King’s prison. If they were dead, the prison’s integrity was compromised far more than we’d realized.

Yes, the voice hissed. The prison weakens. Soon, I will be free.

I gritted my teeth, pushing the voice aside and focusing on maintaining the portal. It had reached its full size now, a massive tear in reality large enough for an army to march through. The strain of holding it open was like trying to hold back an ocean with my bare hands.

“Now!” I shouted to Thorne, who relayed the command down the line.

The troops began to move, marching through the portal in ordered formations. First the vanguard with the banners snapping in the wind, then the main force, followed by supply wagons and support units. Finally, three larger wagons rumbled past, their wheels groaning under the weight of wooden crates—each one filled with bones harvested from the outpost’s fallen.

Sweat poured down my face, and my muscles trembled with the effort of maintaining the portal. The runes beneath my skin felt like they were trying to burn their way out, the pain a constant, screaming presence.

“Kaz?” Arabella’s voice cut through the haze of pain and concentration.

“I’m fine,” I managed.

Before I could protest, she placed her hand on my arm. Immediately, I felt her magic flowing into me, cool and soothing against the burning heat of my own. The Heirloom glowed brighter, and the strain of holding the portal eased slightly.

“Better?” she asked.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

The last of the troops passed through the portal, and they were forming up on the other side, preparing for battle. Through the magical gateway, I could make out movement on the horizon—Auremar’s forces, already mobilizing to meet us. But not the main force of ten thousand. We’d done it.

“He took the bait,” I said, satisfaction coloring my voice despite the strain. “Evenfall delivered our false intelligence.”

“Let’s hope he’s still alive for you to thank personally,” Arabella said drily.

I laughed hoarsely. “I’d rather thank him with the edge of my blade, but I take your point.”

As the last of my ground forces passed through, the Sky Serpent emerged from behind our rear lines, its dark sails billowing as it sailed through the massive portal. Captain Brecca stood at the helm, with the volunteers—those with heroic bloodlines who’d agreed to our counter-ritual—safely aboard. The ship would keep its distance from both the capital and the fighting, hovering just close enough that we could summon them when needed. I watched it glide through the tear in reality, a dark silhouette against the morning sky, carrying our best hope for sealing the Shadow King’s prison. Then it banked west, away from the battlefield, disappearing behind a line of hills.

Sebastian and Thorne were the last of our forces to go through. Now it was our turn. I looked at Arabella, suddenly reluctant to let her go. I wanted to say more—to make her promise to return to me, to tell her what she meant to me. But the portal was growing unstable, the edges flickering as my concentration wavered.