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I slammed my palms over Fadey’s chest. His cries were a sweet final song, a delight to my twisted soul. The threads of craft pulsed into his soul, chipping at it, breaking it, punishing it for what he’d tried to do here.

I made quick work of weaving the different shades of power. With the thread from Thane, bones snapped and splintered in the distance, the sound echoing through the mirror.

Fadey wailed and writhed, trying to escape my touch.

Heat and the tang of blood burned my nose when I guided Yrsa’s thread through his chest. The crimson split, slithering up Fadey’s throat, behind his eyes, and down into his belly.

Something hot and wet I could not see here in the realm of souls coated my hands in the realm of the living.

Sindri’s thread was crueler. The blue dimmed to a shade so deep it nearly looked black and burst from a single tendril to a cloak of knotted dark yarn, enrobing every glimmering shade of Fadey’s soul.

Fadey screamed.

I took hold of the gold thread connected to my own soul. For a moment it coiled between my fingers, the end seeking a place to lay its stitch. I guided the craft string into a place above Fadey’s heart, where all the different shades of craft intersected.

There, I wove my string around them all, strengthening their stitches at the seams, ensuring the craft remained unbreakable.

A burst of smoky ash erupted from the fading remnants of Fadey’s soul.

His cries were hoarse. Distant. Broken.

“Melder, too much.”

A wave of heat cascaded over my body. The things I could do, the power I’d hold, if I only kept each thread knotted like this, mine to command, just as Fadey had said.

I studied the gleaming stitches. What lives I could protect, what power I might have, if I merely claimed these for myself. Thread after thread, I could pull from the ancient craft within the others—

“Melder.” A cold finger dragged down my cheek.

I met his copper-red eyes in the haze. Brighter than the threads of the Wanderer’s bones, a golden rope was strong, sure.

“Let him rest,” he said, his voice a rocky whisper. A voice of understanding.

A light in the darkness, drawing me back.

Friends, folk, and our misfit family were out there, trusting me, trusting us, to end this.

I had my bond. I did not need more.

My shoulders slumped. I let my brow fall to the shoulder of Skul Drek. His long fingers held the back of my head. Embraced in his shadows, I looked down at my palms, at the brilliant threads of the first king.

One by one, I plucked them free of my fingers, releasing them back to the others. One by one, the threads of ancient craft resettled in the souls of every heir as though it had not been disturbed at all.

I tilted my head, brushing a palm over Skul Drek’s jaw. “We’ll let the Wanderer rest now.”

When he kissed me, the mists faded to the smell of blood, sweat, and death.

Arms held me close. Roark clung to me, his bloody ax still in his hand, as though he would swing at anyone who drew too close. My eyes fluttered open.

My head was against my husband’s chest, but my palms were damp and wet with blood.

All around us, Stav Guard, Dark Watch, warriors, and royals stood still, blades lowered.

I swallowed bile when I saw what I’d done.

Baldur’s face was gone. Fadey’s true features were there. I could see bits of myself in the shape of his jaw, his nose. His eyes were open, his silver scars still alight. But his body was not full. It was sunken in, as though something had melted his bones away and his flesh was draped over it.

It’s done. Roark’s gesture was slow and gentle over my cheek.