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That was what the banshees wanted, why they were so willing to come here and die. They were opening the way, making a path for the Empress.

The immortals could stop it, but to do so they’d have to unleash their full power. The Lost would not survive. Any who saw them would be destroyed.

Here and there, a horse went down as a light was snuffed out.

Lore had weaponized the elven glamours. Either way, there would be a genocide, elven or the Lost. At any moment, someone was going to make that choice, to save their people.

It came almost as he realized it.

“Adam,” Dautre said quietly. “I cannot compel you to go, but I can ask you to shield your eyes.”

“Dautre, don’t.”

“I must. They are my people and he is my king.”

Adam had his sword. He could stop this, but he also could not.

The knight had warned him that his kindness would be used against him.

This was Dautre. Dautre was his friend.

“Cover your eyes!” Adam shouted, though he doubted any Lost Ones heard.

Dautre vanished.

Adam fell to his knees and covered his face with Argent’s jacket. He should flee to his body, but he couldn’t. He had to hear, even if he could not see. He pulled his wards around as light brighter than a star, brighter than the sun after snowfall, leaked in despite his efforts.

The banshee song began to dim as they fell.

Other lights joined the first, a constellation that washed the world in white, turning the ever twilight of the spirit realm into a winter day. It buffeted him, even with his eyes shut, even with his wards. Raw magic flooded the air like a desert wind, scrubbing at him. It froze and burned at the same time. It sang, different from the banshees, but not wholly. The sword on his back sang along. The warlock wound shielded him. It drank deep, swallowing the power that came too near to hurting him.

It faded at last, when the banshee song was well and truly silenced.

Footsteps approached, but he did not move.

“Adam,” Argent said gently. “Are you intact?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“You can open your eyes now.”

Twilight was gone.

The cracks, the windows into the Between, had mostly closed, but three remained, massive and rending, like the lines of a claw mark. The pale light from it fell on a field of corpses, banshees, elves, and Lost Ones alike.

He was tempted to count them, which was strange.

A number was just that, a number. It did not accurately measure the lives taken.

He realized the Reapers must have come and wondered if Vic had been here, in his robe, his scythe collecting the souls. Surely such an event must mean all hands on deck.

“Dautre?” he asked.

“He surrendered himself to the king’s justice, as did the others who dropped their glamours.”

“Are you all right? What about Silver?”

“We are unharmed. You should come with me.”