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I lower the book, feeling that hollow place in my chest more keenly than ever. Choice and Will are the shield of Fate. The stars incline. They do not bind.

I have been steered and prodded by Fate my entire life. I have chosen so little for myself—who lives and who dies, who raises me, what I will do for my life. It was all charted for me. I chose none of it.

But this—it suggests there could be a choice. My fated love has to be “chosen in the Dim.” That is the story. And I do not choose Galvin. I could never choose Galvin.

Bloodbond or no, this fate is my choice. Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.

Uncontrollable. Rule breaker. Headstrong. All have been hurled at me as if they were vices. But now they are my shield. Now they are my scythe. For the first time, I know I cannot be controlled.

Oh, they will regret this.

I snap the book shut and peek over the edge of the clocktower—a straight shot to the ground. The only way to reach the ground is to climb down the columns of bones.

On the bone bridge, Galvin and Lonan grapple. Galvin swings at Lonan. Lonan grabs at the coat of Galvin’s uniform, attempting to throw him from the bridge. Their faces are mirrors of each other—twin expressions of fury. But they are a picture of the Dark and the Light. Galvin is clean except for the dampness of rainwater, still in his military regalia. Lonan has none of the distinctions but all of the training. He is anything but clean—blood and filth mixing with the birthmark that branches over his bare chest, sleek with rainwater. They are order and chaos. Obfuscation and revelation. Creation and destruction.

I start across the bridge, my steps careful. The rain is such a deluge now that I can hardly breathe through it, hardly keep upright as it presses down on me. Ahead of me, Lonan grabs Galvin by his shirt and attempts to wrench him off-balance. Galvin roars and swings his brother back the other way. Lonan slips.

My heart catches in my throat. He holds on to the bone bridge by his hands, one hand gripped around a hip bone, the other grasping the eye sockets of a skull. Galvin smiles as he stands over him.

“Do not touch him.” The vehemence of my shout rips my throat.

Galvin turns to me, eyes burning white. “You want to save your bastard?” he seethes. “You are my bloodmate, you whoring bitch.”

I smile, though nothing but hate floods my veins. “I’d like that epitaph on my gravestone, love. ‘Here lies Vesper Fontaine, whoring bitch of Gault.’ ”

“You’ll have no grave. Immortal and mine, you’ll rot in the dungeons—”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Give me the book,” he spits, his voice inhuman and vicious. I grip it tighter, and he bares his siphon teeth. “You can’t hurt me. You know that. There is no fighting this.”

But that’s the point of the story, isn’t it? It means what I decide it does, and I can fight Fate if I fucking want to. Words are tricky things. They do not often mean what they seem and seem to mean what they don’t.

“Get out of my way, Galvin,” I say firmly. “This is your last warning.”

His laugh is rich and regal, but it distorts in the susurrus of rain. He stands fully upright, towering over me. He takes a step toward me. He has the only weapon that matters now, the silver stake, still slick with Poppy’s scarlet blood, gripped in his hand. He steps toward me, eyes white and devoid of any love or fate I’d ever want.

I charge forward, plowing into him, ramming his chest with all my strength. He growls and grabs me, not by my flesh but by the chain around my neck. My timepiece dangles between us, and in a rash moment, reckless girl that I am, I grip the book tighter and seize my timepiece.

A new poem pours from me like I’ve pulled it from another world—one of springtime and babbling rivers and poppy flowers—like it was penned by the hand of Fate.

These words, my path

This time, my last

This road, my way

This curse, my wrath

Parting is poison

This is the sign

All things that are born

Are fated to die.

Whatever effect I thought the poem would have, I did not expect this.