Page 255 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Roremar exchanged a glance with Emmeline. Truthfully, he didn’t know a thing about how Fatesworn bonds worked. But from the concern striking Emmeline’s features, she did.

“Why are you bothering to tell us all of this anyway?” Roremar asked, shifting the topic.

“Because every kind of magic has rules.” Dryvius pressed a hand to Valyrie’s plinth again as if testing, lazily tracing the carvings in the marble. “And I had to linger long enough for mine to pass.”

Long enough…

He hadn’t left Lola here, unguarded and alive, on accident.

He’d left her because he was waiting.

And Roremar’s entire being, the tide of grief he’d been working to swim through, it all drowned him when Dryvius moved.

Faster than a jungle cat, he spun toward the altar and jammed a triple blade into Desmond’s gut.

Roremar roared, running for his friend, shoulder blaring with every stride.

Lola screamed, too, falling forward with Desmond as he crumpled, his blood coating her dressing gown, staining the lilac bright red.

Dryvius grabbed Lola by the throat as she slipped off the altar, backing her toward Valyrie’s statue. Lola scratched at his hands, drawing blood as she cried, but the Fate was undeterred.

“Rore!” His sister called out for him, the choking sound ripping down to his spirit.

With a wave of Dryvius’s hand, a ring of starfire sprung up between them and Roremar, flickering with maroon streaks.

Only Desmond’s bloody form, writhing from the pain of each labored breath, was on Lola’s side of the line.

And his sister—she was still too weak to fight off the Fate.

Dryvius lifted the triple blade to the nearest channel of starfire, swiping one point through with a burst of white light.

Then, he pressed the tip to the plinth holding Valyrie’s monument.

Roremar tried to leap over the flames, but they grew higher with each attempt, lashing at his skin.

As Lola writhed, Dryvius carved a twelve-pointed star, roughly hewn in the marble. Desmond’s blood splashed from the blade into the carving, starfire licking it up.

Smoke spiraled up around the monument, drenching the air in a blend of scents so tangled, Roremar couldn’t pick one from the next. Desperation ripped through him.

Lola—Desmond—he had to get over there.

He wouldn’t lose them.

He took a charging step, prepared to run straight through the fire, but as if he heard the thought, Dryvius whipped around⁠—

And pointed his dagger at Lola’s throat.

One blade still dripped with Desmond’s blood, another burning white hot, but the third was clean.

Waiting for Lola.

The Fate tsked. “I don’t advise that. Reckless you may be, but you are better than stupidity, my Heir.”

Behind Dryvius, the twelve-pointed star expanded. The edges wavered, starfire ripping outward. Silhouettes flashed behind it, landscapes and breathing worlds, tempests of magic glowing and crashing in the maelstrom.

A thousand glasses shattered as a veil to another realm ripped through the air, right there, in the base of the Angel’s statue, widening and expanding, rimmed in silver starfire like an ornate frame.

As it formed, Myrella screamed and crashed to her knees.