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Because that was when she heard it too. Inside her mind and outside of it, loud and bright and clear as a bell, like a door had been unlocked, a window flung open.

“Elle!”

Struggling against her shadowy restraints, Elyria jerked, her neck twisting as she looked, sought, strained to see.

To get a single glimpse of him.

With a desperate pull against Malakar’s hold, Elyria spun around just before they reached the open doorway they had been moving toward. Her eyes greedily took in the sight of him, blood-spattered but whole, pulling Ashrender from where it had been plunged deep into the chest of a sanguinagi cultist. Behind him, another enemy ran in frantic circles, screaming, flailing, before collapsing in a convulsing heap of white-gold flame that illuminated the planes of his face and the way his scarred lip curved into a sneer.

He was the most beautiful sight Elyria had ever seen.

Cedric’s head snapped up.

Gold-ringed eyes met hers, widening with wild relief, then narrowing with realization as Elyria was hauled across the threshold.

It was the last thing she saw before the doors shut.

“There,” said Malakar calmly, dusting his hands before smoothing the front of his robe. “That should give us a little bit of time to figure this out.”

Behind him, the bloodred crystal barrier he’d erected over the doors gleamed, torchlight reflecting off its glassy surface like a wicked mirror. Cedric’s voice, the bond between them, so clear during that moment in the hall, felt once again muffled, like she was underwater. So, too, was her power, still skittering through her veins, seeking and searching for purchase, for an outlet.

It was wild and thoroughly uncontrollable, especially in her current state. But it wasn’t cut off. Wasn’t blocked entirely. And that was why, when there was a sudden, violent pounding at the door, Elyria smiled.

“It won’t keep him out,” she said, her words somewhat slurred. Her gaze dropped to the front of her blouse, turned nearly entirely scarlet now, the wet fabric clinging to her skin. She was very cold.

“Shut up,” hissed one of the cultists who had escorted her and Malakar into this new room. “One man cannot best mi sanguinexos. Wait and see, you fairy whore.” Elyria vaguely recognized him as the short man with the shaved head she had eavesdropped upon earlier.

“But there is more than one, Xander,” said his taller compatriot.

Cornelius, Elyria thought giddily, feeling proud of her excellent memory skills. She then remembered that giddiness was probably a wholly inappropriate emotion to be feeling at this juncture and was, thus, probably not a very good sign.

Xander waved away Cornelius’s protestation. “Even if there were a dozen, even if it were an army, it would not matter. Have some faith in your king, man.”

“But it’s him.” Another resounding boom echoed from behind the blood-magic-covered doors. “He wields the power of the sun,” Cornelius continued, voice rife with panic. “The son has risen, and he is going to⁠—”

There was a sickening squelching sound, a sort of grunt, and a horrified gasp that Elyria realized came from her own mouth, when Cornelius suddenly fell to his knees. He was staring down at his own chest . . . and the massive hole that had been pierced straight through it.

Her gaze shot to Malakar, who had a hand extended, fingers splayed, the shadowy bolt he had just used to rip through Cornelius’s chest retracting, being sucked back into himself.

Xander let out a sad exhale but said nothing as his friend collapsed on the marble floor beneath them.

“You lot and your fucking blood,” muttered Elyria, swaying on her feet. She was actually thankful for the way Malakar’s shadow restraints tightened around her at the remark, because she didn’t think she would be able to stay upright without them at this point, and she really didn’t feel like falling face-first into the steaming pool of blood leaking from Cornelius’s body.

Her eyes roamed over his corpse, stuck for a moment on the contrast of the dark crimson staining the pristine floor. Then they trailed along until they reached the nearest wall, taking in the fresco painted across it, constellations spread across an aurora-filled sky.

Why did it look so familiar?

Why did this room feel familiar too?

The grand hall, Malakar had called it. That seemed right. With its high ceiling and decorated walls, with banners draped over carved columns, it certainly looked grand.

Much grander than a fortress probably warranted, she thought. Her brow furrowed as she shifted against her restraints, Malakar and his followers paying her little mind. On the other side of the doors, Cedric was still pounding away, his efforts interrupted every once in a while with a few extra seconds of silence, while the sanguinagi all had their heads bent together as they plotted several paces away.

And it wasn’t until Elyria managed to turn around that she realized where she was.

Where she had been all along.

Because there, right in front of her fucking face, was the Gate.