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No. Gwen. No, no, no—

Gwen closed the distance, and Orpheus tried to remain on his knees despite the urge to collapse at her feet—beg for forgiveness—words he soon wouldn’t be able to say ever again. The knife glinted in Gwen’s hands, coming closer with every step.

“Gwen,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry, Gwen.”

All around, the city quieted, vibrant cheers fading in favor of the buzzing inside his head, his wavering sight replaced by a vision of Fenrir’s face when he closed his eyes. He thought of his dream and how Fenrir was waiting for him, and how cruel it was that he couldn’t even die, because at least then they could finally be together. Instead, he’d never see Fenrir again, and when death finally did come for him, he wouldn’t even remember what he so sorely missed.

Maybe that should have been a comfort, that for once in Orpheus’ hells-damned life, maybe he’d feel at peace.

The clatter of the blade hitting the ground crashed through his thoughts, and Orpheus opened his eyes to Gwen holding a fireball before him.

“I hope this works,” she whispered, then slapped her hand onto Orpheus’ chest and cast.

Ice flooded his blood, cold and immediate. A fire that consumed him, rushing through his veins and into that ache within his chest where something deep inside him cracked—

—And then everything Orpheus lost erupted into tumultuous fire.

All hells, Orpheus thought, because he didn’t even have to snap, one nudge of his will and Netherflame ignited his hands.

Magic, his again.

“Gwen?” he breathed, fog curling with his breath, and their eyes met.

“Tear it all down,” she whispered, and all Orpheus had to do was close his eyes and obey.

Cold fire crawled over his skin, one sweeping rush that dissolved his bonds and set him free. With his magic restored he didn’t even feel the pain in his leg, so when he stood, he was steady, hands lifting from his sides to pierce the sky above his head.

All around, Sanctuary trembled, one convulsive push of his will all it took to ignite the city with violet, fiery life.

Some gasped, some cheered, and the city breathed. And across the square, Atticus sobbed as Orpheus finally gave him everything he wanted; restored this cursed city with all the power it required to live. One by one Sanctuary’s systems went to work: water spurting from fountains to flood the canals, a system of lights humming into a rainbow of fire, signs and fixtures and curious little pathways embedded into the stone painting the obsidian in color. Mechanics began to churn, a strange snake-like vehicle threading through the towers high above in what Orpheus realized was a train, and more fascinating yet, music began to play, a hymn similar to that which Sanctuary’s denizens sang, but filtering through the city like a psalm, a joyous rendition of life that was…it was…

It was beautiful. Incredible. A symphony of magic restored. Unbounded in its power, perfect in its contained chaos. Magic at its finest, powering a world full of life instead of death. Its potential limitless, an execution of spells so perfectly rendered that the city itself seemed to have a soul. A creature of its own volition, alive despite the skittering rats flooding its streets. And the realization nearly stayed his hand except…

No. This place was cursed, just like him. And he wouldn’t change his mind now, not when he could finally give Sanctuary and its inhabitants what they deserved: Death, like they’d sentenced the rest of the world to, long before they’d finally come for him.

Orpheus touched that little bit of chasm these Architects had put inside him so long ago, found its ragged edge and ripped.

He felt it then: the precise moment the Earth cracked.

In a shattering burst, obsidian split, a gaping wound that rent open time and space, the veil between worlds dissolving in the face of his intent. The square ruptured, Netherflame arcing out in a massive splash of cold fire towards Sanctuary’s denizens. Cheers turned to screams while the ground beneath their feet shook, fracturing, spidering into a molten violet fire, Hell arrived to reclaim what these people had so brazenly stolen from it.

“This is what you deserve,” he whispered, Gwen at his side, arm outstretched to brush an errant lick of flame rising from the chasm while he drew Hell’s power into himself. Violet flooded his vision until it was all he could see, all he could breathe, fog swirling around them in a churning boil, Netherflame licking directly up from Hell to bend to his will.

And Orpheus took that power and turned it on the people who had hurt him the most, more than Lore or the hermits had, because for all the pain they’d caused him, they’d never been unable to land a killing blow.

They hadn’t killed Fenrir.

I love you with all that I am. All that he was. All that he could be. All that he feared he’d been, because maybe Lore hadn’t been wrong. Maybe only she had seen the truth of him. I’ll make them pay.

An exhale of breath. A nudge of his will. Then Orpheus reached into Sanctuary’s raw veins and shoved.

All around them, the city began to fall.

Screams turned to shrieks; the rush of air became a roar. “Monster!” They howled. “Monster!” But Orpheus didn’t care about any of that.

He threw his head back and tore Sanctuary apart.

Chapter XLIII