Ashterion studied the blade in his hands. It was a beautiful thing—simple, elegant, perfectly balanced. The metal caught the light, gleaming silver-blue in the fading sun, the enchantment woven into the hilt humming quietly, like a sleeping heartbeat.

  It would be quick.

  Gods knew, if nothing else, he would at least die with precision.

  His gaze drifted across the garden. Wild roses bloomed in tangled arches. A cluster of silver lilies danced in the breeze. A tree he’d planted when he’d built the garden stood in the centre, its trunk thick now, branches stretching high and strong into the sky.

  He’d once imagined bringing someone here.

  A wife, maybe. A mate, if fate had ever been so kind. He used to sit under that tree and picture children racing across the stones, their laughter echoing over the rooftops, chasing faelight and dreams.

  Gods, how deluded he’d been.

  Ashterion’s throat tightened. He hadn’t realised he’d stopped breathing until a bitter exhale pushed from his lungs.

  Freedom.

  Death was the closest he would ever come to it. And so, he might as well be grateful—for the silence, for the sky, for the fact that Xyliria had been too preoccupied with her latest machinations to notice him slipping away.

  He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade.

  The blade’s edge opened a thin red line across his thumb, a bright bead of crimson forming in its wake. He watched it with detached curiosity, the way it trembled and swelled before finally spilling over, trailing down the curve of his palm.

  His shadows stirred restlessly, coiling around his ankles. They sensed what was coming. They had been part of him for so long. These ancient, hungry things had followed him through centuries of bloodshed and survival.

  Merrick would inherit them, along with everything else. The power, the responsibility, the burden of the Nyxarian Court. The shadows would serve him well. His brother had always been the better of them, stronger in ways that mattered, kinder in ways Ashterion had forgotten how to be.

  The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine. When had he planted those? Centuries ago, perhaps, on a night when he’d still believed in small mercies.

  It was the right decision. The only decision.

  Ashterion studied the point where he would place the blade, right between his ribs, angled upward to pierce his heart. A swift death. Clean. Final.

  A tremor ran through his hand.

  “Damn it.”

  The words were a breath in the garden’s stillness.

  After everything—after centuries of enduring—was he going to falter now? When it mattered most? His shadows twitched, one rising toward the blade. As if they could stop him.

  A bitter laugh escaped him, dry and hollow in the quiet garden.

  He’d faced armies. He’d survived wars. He’d endured centuries of Xyliria’s cruelty, her madness, her slow dismantling of everything he’d once been.

  And yet, his hand trembled.

  Ashterion drew in a deep breath, steadying himself. The air tasted sweet here, untainted by the heavy scent of blood and fear that permeated the palace.

  He lowered the blade to his lap, forcing out a slow deep breath. His hand steadied. His shadows stilled.

  This wasn’t about courage. It wasn’t about fear. It was about necessity.

  One clean stroke.

  And it would all be over.

  70

  Brynelle didn’t scream. No. The sound she made was worse. A wet, choked gasp, so small, so fragile, the sound a body makes when it’s trying to understand the impossible.

  When it knows it has only seconds left.

  Her body jerked, her hands flying to her throat, pressing, clawing at the wound, trying to hold in the blood that was already pouring down her chest. Dark and endless.

  Unstoppable.

  The moment stretched, agonisingly slow. A heartbeat suspended in time.

  Her eyes—gods, her eyes—were wide with shock.

  Everything inside me shattered.

  A scream tore through the air.

  Raw. Animal.

  Shaelith.

  I had never heard anything like it. Not in battle. Not in torture. Not even in my own nightmares.

  It ripped through the space, through bone, through the fabric of the world.

  It wasn’t even a voice anymore. Just anguish made real, a thing with jagged teeth and bleeding edges, clawing through the air as if sound alone could stop what had already happened.

  Brynelle crumpled.

  Shaelith threw herself forward, lunging across the blood-slick stone.

  She caught Brynelle before she hit the ground.

  Barely.

  Her arms wrapped around her, and she sank to her knees, dragging Brynelle down with her, cradling her like she could undo it, like she could press her back together with sheer fucking will.

  “No—no, no, no, no⁠—”

  The word spilled out of her in a loop, a denial, a plea to gods that had never once listened. Her hands pressed against the wound, trying to stem the flood, but the blood kept coming, hot and dark, painting her fingers, her wrists, soaking into the fabric of her sleeves.

  “Stay with me,” Shaelith sobbed, her voice cracking, splintering into something unrecognizable. “Stay with me, please⁠—”

  Brynelle’s lips parted.

  A thin, wet sound escaped her throat, the ghost of breath struggling to shape itself into meaning.

  Her hand lifted.

  Shaelith grabbed it instantly, pressing it to her chest, her cheek, her lips, like she could anchor Brynelle to this world through touch alone.

  “I’m here,” she choked out, tears streaming down her face, her whole body wracked with sobs. “I’m right here, love, I’m right here⁠—”

  Brynelle’s fingers twitched against Shaelith’s jaw.

  So gentle.

  So impossibly gentle.

  Shaelith bent low, pressing her forehead to Brynelle’s, her tears falling fast onto bloodless skin.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, stripped down to nothing but raw need. “Don’t you dare.”

  And then she kissed her.

  Like she could breathe life back into her. Like love alone could be enough to drag someone back from the edge of the abyss.

  Her lips moved against Brynelle’s and when she pulled back just enough to speak, the words came out broken.

  “Stay,” Shaelith begged. “Please, gods, please—I can’t—I can’t do this without you, I can’t⁠—”

  Brynelle’s hand went slack against her cheek.

  The smallest shift.

  Shaelith felt it.

  “No—no—” She kissed Brynelle again, harder this time, as if she could pour her own heartbeat into Brynelle’s chest, as if sheer desperation could rewrite the laws of mortality. “Come back, come back, come back⁠—”

  But Brynelle’s beautiful, whiskey-soft eyes, were fluttering.

  Her chest rose once more. A shallow, rattling breath.

  Then stillness.

  Complete.

  Absolute.

  The air went dead.

  Shaelith froze, her lips pressed to Brynelle’s, her whole body suspended in the moment before understanding crashed down.

  And then⁠—

  She screamed.

  Not like before.

  This was worse.

  This was the sound of a soul being ripped in half.

  The world blurred⁠—

  No.

  The world snapped. Narrowed to a pinpoint of red and rage and anguish. My own voice might have broken free. I didn’t know. I didn’t care.

  Because I was moving. There was no thought. No reason. No survival. There was only Xyliria. Only the need to end her.

  I lunged.

  I didn’t care about the guards. Didn’t care about the pain, the chains, the inevitable consequences. Didn’t care about anything except sinking my fingers into her throat and tearing it out.

  But I never made it.

  Strong arms caught me. Held me back.

  I fought. Snarled. Thrashed like a wild thing, but the grip was ironclad. A murmur in my ear, but I didn’t care.

  Because Brynelle was dead.

  And Xyliria was still breathing.

  Something tore in my chest. A sound. A rib. I couldn’t tell.

  A male’s voice was in my ear, low and urgent. “Don’t. She’ll kill you all.”

  Shaelith was already gone. She broke free, her chains nothing but forgotten weight, her entire body a single, unyielding force of vengeance. A feral snarl tore from her throat as she lunged, nothing left in her but rage and grief, her wild charge fuelled by agony too great to contain.

  For a moment, it seemed she might reach her target⁠—

  Xyliria barely blinked.

  Her magic lashed out, crimson clouds whipping through the air, slamming into Shaelith’s body with brutal, sickening force.

  The sound of impact was a dull, horrible crack.

  Shaelith hit the ground, her body crumpling.

  “How disappointing.” Xyliria sighed, as if this had all been some tedious game, as if Brynelle’s lifeblood wasn’t slick on her hands. She wiped her blade against her gown.

  “Now,” she said, almost lazy. “Shall we try this again?”

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Brynelle’s body, from the pool of blood spreading beneath her, dark and glistening, staining the once-pristine marble floor.

  The scent of copper filled my lungs, thick and metallic, wrong. It mixed with the acrid, suffocating stench of fear, of sweat, of despair.

  The room was so vast, so cavernous, but it was too small. The walls caved in, suffocating, the high ceilings trapping the sound, forcing us to hear everything.

  Shaelith’s broken sobs echoed off the cold stone, not a sound but a wound, alive in the air, seeping into the floors, the walls—into us.

  “Choose,” Xyliria commanded. “Or I’ll choose for you.”

  A shuddering breath left me.

  Varyth’s entire being burned with rage, with hatred, with promised vengeance.

  He knelt, bound hands curled into fists, his chest rising and falling in harsh, furious breaths.

  Every part of him radiated violence, a quiet, simmering promise that if he made it out of this alive, he would rip Xyliria apart with his bare hands.

  And then⁠—

  Linc.

  Linc, who wasn’t trembling. Who wasn’t raging.

  Blood trickled from his mouth and nose, but his eyes met mine. Resigned. Accepting.

  A breath shuddered from my lips as I understood.

  He knew. He knew I wouldn’t choose Varyth. That I couldn’t. Not when Xyliria wanted nothing more than to see me shatter, to watch me carve my own soul into pieces.

  Linc was telling me it was okay. That he understood. That I had to do what needed to be done.

  I took a step toward him.

  “Don’t you fucking dare.” Varyth’s snarl was guttural, warning.

  The weight of the dagger in my hand was unbearable.

  I trembled.

  I couldn’t do this.

  Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move.

  Xyliria was drinking in every second of my agony.

  “You’re dragging this out longer than necessary, darling,” she sighed, long-suffering, shaking her head with mock disappointment. “Do you need some encouragement?”

  I had a second to process before she lifted her hand.

  Magic coiled through the air, and then it struck.

  Fenric screamed. He jerked violently, his back arching, his breath strangled as invisible forces tightened around him.

  No.

  The word tore from my chest like a blade ripping upward, slicing through my ribs, shredding everything in its path.

  The magic wrapped around Fenric like living chains, crimson threads of agony that ate through flesh and bone. His back arched, spine bowing until I thought it might snap, his bound hands clawing at nothing, at air, at the impossible weight of pain that was devouring him alive.

  But it was Linc who destroyed me.

  Linc, who had been so still, so resigned, so fucking noble about dying—Linc exploded.

  The chains around his wrists snapped like brittle twigs as he lunged forward, nothing left of him but pure, feral rage. He hit the stone hard, scrambling, crawling, as he dragged himself toward Fenric with the desperate violence of someone watching their soul being torn apart.

  “Stop!” Linc roared. “Stop, you fucking bitch, take me instead!”

  But the guards were already there, slamming him back, pinning him down as he thrashed like a wild thing. And still Fenric screamed, that horrible, wet sound that meant the magic was finding soft places to burrow.

  Fenric collapsed, gasping, blood trickling from his nose, his mouth, his eyes. But he was breathing. Still breathing.

  Beside me, the others screamed.

  Darian was frantic, shouting words I didn’t hear—my name, maybe, or Linc’s—but the words blurred together, lost in the chaos. Fenric fought his bindings, his movements wild. Cindrissian cursed under his breath, usual calm shattered, fury pouring from every inch of him.

  But I didn’t hear them.

  Not really.

  Because the only thing I could hear⁠—

  Was Linc.

  His was steady, despite the agony rippling through his battered body. Despite the fact that he was the one suffering.

  He knelt before me, bloodied, exhausted, gasping for breath, but somehow his eyes were steady as they held mine.

  “Hey,” he said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear it over the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. “Look at me.”

  I couldn’t. I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t see the understanding in his features, the acceptance of what I was about to do. The way he was trying to make this easier for me when I was the one holding the knife.

  “Isara.” His voice was stronger now, more certain. Not a command, but a request. “Please.”

  I lifted my head, met his gaze, and nearly broke apart completely.

  Because there was no fear there. No panic. No desperate pleading for his life.

  There was only love. Pure, overwhelming, devastating love—not for me, but for them. For Fenric, whose tortured screams were echoing off the walls. For all of us, really, but mostly for the man whose agony was tearing him apart from the inside.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, and that sad smile—gods, that fucking smile—spread across his bloodied lips. “That you can’t do this. That this will destroy you.”

  I was shaking, my whole body rejecting what my mind knew had to happen.

  “But you can.” Blood trickled from his mouth. “You can do this, Isara. Because you’re stronger than you think, and because⁠—”

  His eyes flicked toward Fenric, toward the writhing, broken form of the man he loved, and the pain that crossed his features was so raw it carved something out of my chest.

  “Because he’s dying, and you’re the only one who can save him.”

  “Linc—” The word came out as a sob, broken and desperate.

  “Shhh.” He was still smiling, that terrible, beautiful smile that said he forgave me before I’d even done anything to forgive. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

  No, it wasn’t. Nothing about this was okay. Nothing about this would ever be okay.

  But Fenric screamed again, and Linc’s face crumpled for just a moment—pure anguish flashing across his features before he forced that smile back into place.

  “He’ll understand,” Linc whispered, and his voice broke just slightly. “Fenric will understand. You know he will. He’d do the same thing if our positions were reversed.”

  He would. Gods, he absolutely would.

  “Just do it,” Linc said, and there was something almost pleading in his tone now. Not for his life, but for me. For my ability to live with what came next. “Save him. Just do it.”

  My hands were trembling so badly I could barely grip the knife.

  “You’ll be okay,” he said, and somehow he made it sound like the truth. “You will. You’re going to be okay, Isara. All of you are.”

  The certainty in his voice nearly undid me. The absolute faith he had in our ability to survive this, to keep going even after⁠—

  I took a step forward.

  Then another.

  My vision blurred with tears I couldn’t shed, not here, not in front of Xyliria, who was watching with that horrible, satisfied smile.

  “That’s it,” Linc whispered, encouragement threading through his words like he was coaching me through sword practice instead of his own execution. “You can do this.”

  I was shaking.

  Unravelling.

  Breaking apart at the seams.

  Linc’s voice wrapped around me, but I was slipping.

  “It’s not your fault,” he murmured, as though trying to convince me. As though he already believed it. “You did what you had to do.”

  The dagger in my hands⁠—

  It was heavier than the world itself.

  The only thing holding me together was the steady warmth in Linc’s eyes, the absolute trust written across his face. Trust that I would do what needed to be done.

  Trust that I would save Fenric.

  Trust that I would survive what came after.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “Don’t be.” That sad smile widened. “Just make sure he remembers I loved him.”

  I raised it, the blade catching the torchlight, casting fractured shadows across Linc’s face. He didn’t flinch. Just kept looking at me with that steady, unbreakable faith that made me want to scream.

  You can do this. You have to do this.

  But even as I thought it, my body was rejecting every instinct, every rational thought. My muscles locked up, refusing to move, refusing to⁠—

  The magic around Fenric suddenly released.

  He collapsed to the stone floor like a broken doll, gasping, shuddering, barely conscious. But even through the haze of agony, even with blood streaming from his nose and mouth, he saw what was happening.

  Saw me standing over Linc with a blade.

  “No—” The word tore from his throat. “No, no, no, Isara, please⁠—”