Page 221 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“The first line of the note makes some sense,” Emmeline mused.

You tempted Fate, and realms do wrest. She didn’t entirely know what they’d done to tempt Fate or how realms could wrest, but it was a call back to the message on her wall in the Academy.

The knowledge of Dryvius having been so close, his shadowed hands on her, made her stomach lurch.

To tempt the Fates, and realms will wrest.

The note tonight was meant for her and Roremar explicitly, blaming them for Lola being taken. For tempting Fate, perhaps for choosing each other when she’d sworn she wouldn’t. Nausea swept through her.

The final lines even had some logic to them: Say goodbye, my Heir of Chaos. Her ruin is your greatest loss.

But it was the middle that had Emmeline pausing. At the slice of midnight, the bridges crest.

Why midnight? Why slice and not stroke when she’d never heard it phrased that way? And how could a bridge crest? What bridge? There weren’t any bodies of water in Valyn, and she doubted Dryvius had enough time or the desire to leave the city if he already had an audience here.

Rocarri began summarizing the tournament thus far and going through the standings of each competitor. Emmeline tuned him out, watching the stars move as she picked back through the readings she’d conducted recently, sure someone had spoken of bridges.

A foretold death of bridges, a Fate echoed in her mind, and she perked up.

“During the joint reading at the vineyard,” she told Myrella. “One of the Fates mentioned bridges. A foretold death of bridges.” She couldn’t remember which one it was, but the line stuck in her memory.

Relief unspooled within her. She’d been given the pieces—all of them in her readings. She only had to put them in the correct order.

“Are they referring to the women tied to Anphrosia as bridges?” Myrella asked.

“As if each death adds a step,” Emmeline guessed.

“What else did they say?”

Emmeline sighed pulling the voices of the Fates to the front of her memory. “Something about a golden forge and two lovers’ hearts united.” That last part could mean her and Roremar, their Fatesworn bond revealed.

“Valyrie mentioned bridges, too,” Myrella reminded her. “All forgotten bridges respun.”

Chills peppered Emmeline’s bare arms at Myrella’s words. “Respun.”

Her thoughts bounced around faster than the stars as Rocarri finished naming the competitors who were left in the Races. When none of them emerged from the tunnel to their adoring fans, a perplexed ripple stuttered through the arena.

“I’m sure you’re all wondering where our final contestants are,” Rocarri said placatingly. “Worry not, the remaining thirteen competitors have to face the heart of their own fears tonight.”

That aligned with what Valyrie said she made her original competitors go through to reach their eternal state. Fates, what was Roremar enduring right now?

Slice of midnight, her mind repeated, bouncing from one unsolvable problem to the next, constantly feeling like she was missing something.

Her attention flicked to the constellations overhead, all twelve of them bright.

Twelve. She counted quickly in her mind, gasping as she realized. “What if midnight isn’t literal?”

“You think it’s symbolic?”

“I think it means twelve. Each death is a step. Dryvius killed eight women on Lyra, and he killed two more since arriving in this city, a third tonight. That’s eleven total. We assumed he kept killing because the ritual wasn’t working, but what if they haven’t been failed attempts. Each was successful, but he needed twelve. Lola isn’t just a sacrifice he’s warmed up for.”

Myrella’s eyes widened. “She’s the final victim.”

“Midnight isn’t the literal part of the line.” Emmeline’s pulse pounded faster as her magic spun through her. “Maybe it’s slice. Saying when he kills her with the slice of a blade—when he kills his twelfth victim—that’s when it’s successful.”

Myrella blanched, cheeks hollowing. “Who’s to say when he’ll do it, then? Or that he hasn’t already?” Her panic was palpable, but Emmeline squeezed her arm.

“We’d know. Trust me,” Emmeline said, magic stirring. “I’d feel it.”