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She was strongest when he was with her.

They were stronger together.

The wards were down. Cedric was here. And as physically weak as Elyria might have been now, her power was not.

Because she was not alone.

Every muscle screaming in protest, Elyria lunged, ripping herself from Malakar’s grip. Her shadows slipped through his fingers like smoke when he tried to use them to haul her back.

And like the air itself had been sliced open, roaring, thrashing fury suddenly burst into the room.

Claws raked down Malakar’s face, tore at his chest. Teeth snapped at his arms as he launched himself backward with a yell, scrambling to get away from the pitch-black volacarnii that had just leapt from the shadows.

Elyria barely had time to appreciate the sight of Sid chasing the dark sorcerer back. She was still stumbling forward, her legs unsteady, unusable.

She was falling.

Until she wasn’t.

Until a pair of arms closed around her, spinning her around, holding her, cushioning her, as she careened toward the ground.

“I have you.”

He had her.

The scent hit her first—steel and sweat and that familiar, impossible blend of sandalwood and embers and something so perfectly, ineffably him. The next thing that registered was the sound of his breathing, ragged and frantic against her ear as he held her in his lap. Then the hitch of his chest as he repeated, over and over, “I have you, I have you, I have you, I⁠—”

“This is impossible,” seethed Malakar, now clear on the other side of the hall, cowering by the Gate, black blood dripping from his face and hands.

Sid prowled back and forth in the space between them, growling, like she was torn between pursuing the dark sorcerer and protecting Elyria.

She was majestic, as large and beautiful as she had been when Elyria had last seen her in Kingshelm, her shadowy wings folded against her back, her feline gaze never leaving Malakar.

A sob bubbled up in Elyria’s throat, but this was not the time to break down. Not yet. The sounds from the hall were loud now. Reinforcements had almost arrived.

From the doorway, Raefe shouted again. A curse. Then another one. A flare of heat singed the back of Elyria’s head, and she peered over Cedric’s shoulder to see the fae standing in the doorway, pitching balls of fire down the hall.

With heartbreaking gentleness, Cedric shifted Elyria off him. She wanted to protest, wanted him to come back. She needed him, needed to feel him, needed to make sure he was real. But she did not have strength left even to speak.

“Sid,” he said, snapping his fingers, and the giant shadowcat leapt back—eyes still on the dark sorcerer—and butted her way under Elyria’s side, supporting her.

Cedric stood.

Tightened his grip on Ashrender.

Stalked toward Malakar.

“This is not over,” spat the dark sorcerer. “We will not be denied. The Line will be pierced. The world rewritten. Should you survive tonight, you will see.” His gaze shot past Cedric, piercing Elyria where she lay half-propped against Sid on the floor. “You will see.”

His shadows rose around him like a cloak, wrapping him in darkness.

Cedric shouted. Lunged.

But he was already gone.

There was no time to revel in Malakar’s absence. In the monumental weight that lifted from Elyria’s shoulders instantaneously. To marvel at the tears suddenly pouring down her cheeks, surely leaving tracks in the soot and blood spatter covering them. To relish the feel of Cedric’s arms around her once again as he returned to her, muttering a low curse under his breath.

“I’m sorry he got away,” he said.