“You’re not. Or we all are. A really big one, very soon.” Meri gave an encouraging nod as he pointed up. “Because of that.”

  Against her better judgement, Morgan followed the line of his arm. A glimmer of fire bloomed in the heaven, then another beside it, then another. “What are those?”

  “The end of all things,” Tarragon said. “The weapon that killed the world before but unleashed threefold this time.”

  “Like I said, we need a live one.” Meri scritched his beard. “For after you hold the gate open.”

  “Of course, that explains everything.” Morgan thought her words didn’t have quite the right loading of sarcasm, so she added a little more. “And why would I want to hold the gate open to a realm full of horrible monsters?”

  “This is why you need Holomancers.” The sorcerer looked at what remained of the ceiling for a moment. “No one here has the long view? Okay. We need a live one for the starlight inside it. I think … I know we’re going to need it.” Meri glanced at Tarragon. “So we can bring back what we left behind, and not lose what we gained.”

  A bellowing roar came from the far end of the room, and the massive doors to the outside exploded inward. The last demon lord—Morsorachius, the Abyssal Clown, no doubt—came lurching in, massive running steps shaking the ground. Fire rained from the sky, impacting the monster, and it roared its pain, turning to face the ruin of the door.

  And there she is. Morgan admitted Geneve suited her armour, a battle angel made flesh, the two shining warriors at her side Light-born manifestations of her fury. Geneve levelled Requiem at the retreating Morsorachius, starfire falling around. “You are going the wrong way.”

  The demon lord looked at the down-and-out form of its comrade Aterregis. “YOU ARE TOO LATE TO STOP YOUR DOOM, AND I WILL NOT SHARE IT WITH YOU.”

  Geneve didn’t lower Requiem, the blade of justice burning bright. “You want everything from us. It’s time you got your due.”

  “Tarragon,” Morgan breathed. “Tarragon, I know you want to go through the gate. I know you think you’ll be helping. But if you want to see Evanne again, please hold the line. Here, with us. With the living.”

  “She wants to die,” Tarragon wailed.

  “She doesn’t,” Morgan said. “The bard is young and feels she will be made into song. But I have a plan.”

  “You do?” Meri gave her some side eye. “Is it the same plan I had?”

  “It is not. It is a necessary addition.”

  Tarragon’s eyes were wide, but she bit her lip, and nodded, then turned to face the throng. Which was just in time, as the three points of light in the sky grew larger, the heavens crying and roaring as they came. Morgan felt fear, but she wasn’t alone. The demon-ridden Vide surged toward the gate. Or, perhaps, it was away from Heser the Cheg, astride the mammoth tiger Pakhet, bellowing his very human war cry as he came. Tarragon presented her blade to the horde, Sight of Day at her shoulder. Meriwether du Reeves at the other, although Morgan was unsure what good he would do. Still. Every stick on the pyre helps.

  Morgan bent, retrieving Sands Apart’s fallen blade. Just a slip of a weapon, elegant, for a woman struggling to find beauty in the right places. She strode to the line, Heser stepping down from his tiger to stand beside her. “My queen.”

  She faced him, then caressed his face. Leaned in, and kissed him, his eyes wide as hers closed. “My love.”

  “Finally,” Pakhet said. “We can all die knowing how the saga ends.”

  “Hold this gate open,” Meriwether said. “Morgan, you’re shit with a blade, and I need you holding the gate.”

  “The gate will hold,” Morgan said. “I commanded it.”

  “And you need to be alive to⁠—”

  “My Lord du Reeves, do not presume to tell me what to do.” Morgan eyed the three points of light. “You are a smarter man than that.”

  Morsorachius bleated his terror, turning to the gate. Finding Ormeon and Myryntir before him, two hounds guarding his retreat path. The desperate demon lord cast about, then rounded on Geneve. “I WILL END YOU! I WILL⁠—”

  Whatever it would do was lost as Geneve threw her blade at him. Requiem spanged off the demon’s weapon, which was so large it would put a good log cabin to shame. The Saviour of Ravenswall ran at him as her blade returned to palm, then threw it again, over and over, Light blazing as the demon lord retreated.

  He stumbled and fell back on one knee. Geneve leaped, bounding up his leading leg, her angels beside her. Morgan saw her swing Requiem against the demon lord’s neck, a mirror movement of the two angels following up, each form slipping into her body as her blow landed.

  Morsorachius’ head bounced free, and Geneve kept running over the top. She reached Meriwether, her face softening a moment. “Love.”

  “Love,” he agreed. “What kept you?”

  “The fate of realms.”

  “Bah.” He squinted at the Vide throng, churning and savage. “What next?”

  “Perhaps you need a shield,” Tarragon offered.

  Geneve glanced at the once-fairy. “Knight Adept..?”

  “Tarragon.”

  “Knight Adept Tarragon⁠—”

  “It’s just Tarragon.”

  Geneve pressed her lips into a considering line. “Knight Adept Tarragon, why do I need a shield?”

  “To protect the world,” Tarragon said. “Like Knight Champion Mireille did.”

  “I do not intend to die as Mireille did.” Geneve swept red hair back. “Who is the sacrifice?”

  “Evanne,” Meriwether murmured. “She is … you’d have liked her.”

  “She’s not a sacrifice!” Tarragon rounded on Morgan. “You said.”

  “I did.” Morgan tested the point of her blade, finding it very sharp indeed. “Knight Champion Geneve, a moment.”

  “We don’t have much time, Morgan.” Geneve shook her head. “I wish we did.”

  “We have time. Evanne is the woman in the armour who dove into the gate. She is Vertiline’s and Armitage’s daughter. She⁠—”

  “Impossible.”

  “Many things are possible, Knight Champion.” Morgan eyed Geneve, taking in the wide eyes. “She brokered a deal. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Evanne accepts her doom for us, but she didn’t consult her queen. I will not stand for it.”

  Geneve gave her a long look, that Tresward visage hiding anything else. Geneve still wore the face of a woman in her late teens, but her eyes held millennia. Geneve looked away first, and Morgan found that the most curious thing of all. Tresward bent no knee. “You are right, of course. She would not forgive me.”

  Forgive her for what? It was of little moment, because matters pressed. Morgan called to Myryntir. “Mighty dragon! Fastest of all, I need you.”

  //AT LAST, SOME RESPECT.//

  “I need you to fly into the gate and retrieve our wayward daughter.”

  //A LITTLE TOO MUCH RESPECT.//

  Ormeon grinned red. //OH, GO ON. YOU’RE TOO DAMNED PRETTY TO DIE.//

  “There is a balance I can feel,” Morgan said. “We stand at the moment where all can be won or lost. You must do this, dragon.”

  Myryntir glanced at Ormeon. //YOU REALLY THINK I’M PRETTY?//

  She nuzzled him. //YOU ARE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING I HAVE SEEN.//

  //HOLD THAT THOUGHT.// Myryntir bunched, surged, and dashed over Morgan’s head, and into the demon gate.

  “Not very smart, though,” Meri mused.

  “Now, we must hold the line,” Morgan said. “We must hold it for as long as it takes.”

  “What for?” Tarragon blinked. “What’s going to take a long time?”

  The ancients’ weapons keened and roared over head, hot ashy wake blasting past as they zipped, one, two, three, into the demon’s realm. Morgan smoothed—Merciful Three, again!—her robe. “The end of a world.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  This is an odd place.

  Myryntir dove through an absence. It felt like space, but without the starlight that powered the universe. There was an empty part of his mind where the Manifest should have been. A tome of knowledge put there by ancient humans who tried to chain … well, everything, including creatures like him. Bend them to a purpose, and if they wouldn’t yield, break them.

  They would be right at home here. This place is not just odd, but evil. It holds nothing for those who live today. It holds nothing for Evanne. I wish she hadn’t come here.

  Below he spied land, a vast stretch of stone and rubble that held nothing green or wet. It wasn’t like Myryntir’s world, an orb held in the vastness of space, a jewel slotted into the crown of the sun. This was a beach that never knew the waves. It was a desert that hadn’t known trees well enough to forget them.

  It explains why they want all the humans’ starlight. No suns collapsed over millennia, again and again, to forge the atoms here. It’s all … empty.

  The red dragon survived here, though. She was a foxy one, all long teeth and enticing grin. He’d have liked to spend a few more minutes asking her how she had such an elegant span of wing or discuss the red dawn of her eyes. Built like he was, but larger, and stronger.

  But slower. It’s why I’m here.

  Myryntir turned his long neck to look behind him. Back there, the gate held open, and he could see a wink of light beyond. The living world, breathing, thriving, so foreign to the things that infested this land. Any second now⁠—

  There they are.

  The weapons of the ancients spat through. They moved fast, nosing the sky, terrible dogs off the leash. I will not survive an encounter with one. They told me the Knight Champion Mireille shielded the world just enough for a few to survive, scratching in the brittle clay to claw toward a new dawn. They say she sent her dragon away.

  They say she loved her dragon. I wonder what it is like to be loved. It must take time to forge a bond like that. To live for another, to always want their thing more than yours.

  I wish my Manifest was here. It would tell me, and I wouldn’t have to wonder.

  He thought about that embergleam grin, and figured if he could make it out of this, he might coax a few years out of the world to learn about love. I’m not loved. But I see those who are, and that is the precious thing the demons want most. They won’t have it, not even a speck, while I live.

  Myryntir turned about, seeking Evanne. She with the beautiful voice and the terrible choices. Three’s merciful gaze, but she decided that bringing an untethered blue dragon back to the world was the right call. That she’d just, what, trust that things would work out? I’ve seen my fangs, and they are terrifying. Why did she do that?

  Maybe I’ll ask her. Below, he spied Evanne falling like a comet, a contrail of starlight behind her. The bard was trying to get far from the gate, or perhaps deep into the enemy’s territory. Myryntir didn’t mind, because he was a blue dragon. The blues held the power of the storm, not that pesky thing the Tresward had with a capital S, but the majesty of nature. The kind of energy the sky spat when it had flat out had enough. It was brighter than dragonfire and fast as light.

  He straightened his body, made it an arrow, and flew. Myryntir pushed himself, young heart beating, the chamber of his body stoked with energy, the light crackling about him, urging him forward faster than wings alone. The lightning charging his body broke free in arcs and slashes, lighting the terrain below, bringing the brown-black rock into relief. It highlighted the demons below as they hungrily bounded toward Evanne’s falling star. Myryntir roared, lightning arcing from his jaws, so’s to give them something to fear.

  I must look absolutely badass. I bet the red would be jealous.

  The weapons of the ancients were missiles. They’d crafted them to break the very planet they lived on, which was a stupid thing to do when the planet was where you kept all your stuff. Important stuff, like blue dragons. The missiles held the power of starlight, Myryntir could feel it, but something else, like the ebb and flow of sorcery. The kind of thing no single magician could make. He felt the enchantment that held it, the evocation that powered it, and the thaumaturgy that made it bigger than it should be. A salting of conjuration to bring forth the devils of death, and necromancy to ruin all things. Tied together with a nice little ritualistic bow.

  They were imbeciles. Those weapons will ruin everything.

  Evanne was close now. She held the still form of Wild Sur. The Feybrind was so spectacularly dense he showed that even someone who’d seen the world break could have a learning disability. Her visor turned to him, her body jerking with surprise. Her voice was stressed, and weaker than it should be. “What are you doing here?”

  //SAVING YOU.// Myryntir grinned, lightning crackling between them. Her armour lapped it up. //THERE’S NO OTHER REASON TO BE HERE. NOT A FIVE-STAR RESTAURANT ANYWHERE.//

  “You have to go.”

  //WE ARE AGREED.//

  “You can’t make it with me!”

  //WE HAVE A MISMATCH.// He turned a lazy circle in the not-really-air which still buffeted him well enough. //I DON’T KNOW IF YOU NOTICED, BUT I’M A DRAGON.//

  “I’m not!”

  //A WRINKLE, NOTHING MORE.// He wished for the Manifest again, because he was certain it would contain useful knowledge on convincing humans to do things in their best interests. //DO YOU WANT TO BECOME A DRAGON RIDER?//

  “I’m … dying, Myryntir. The armour’s taken too much. It ate and ate until it gobbled Hitch, and now he’s gone for good. I’m taking it with me, so it can’t eat anyone else.”

  //VERY SELFLESS, BUT QUITE UNNECESSARY.// Myryntir glanced back at the missiles, which were alarmingly close. //LOOK, I HATE TO BE BLUNT, BUT WE’RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME. MY HEROIC SWOOP WILL BE LESS EFFECTIVE IF WE EXPLODE.//

  “How will we make it? We’ve come so far, and we’ve no time left.”

  //PUT DOWN YOUR BAGGAGE. BLUE DRAGONS ARE THE FASTEST THINGS EVER MADE.// She looked like she was about to start some more verbal sparring and Myryntir was clean out of patience, so he swooped in, ignoring the staccato popping of the magnetic arbalest’s rounds against his armour as it fired at him—pointlessly—and nipped her up in his jaw. Then he tossed her, did a roll, and came up under her. She yelped, Wild Sur’s body tumbling away, the jewel blooming brighter at the dead man’s throat.

  //NOW, WE FLY.//

  “Don’t you mean flee?”

  //DRAGONS DON’T FLEE. WE ARE THE APEX PREDATORS OF THE UNIVERSE.// He glanced over his shoulder. //MAKE SURE YOU HAVE A GOOD GRIP. TARRAGON WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU AGAIN.//

  “I’ve got aaaaaieeeeee!” Evanne shrieked as Myryntir powered back toward the gate.

  He could see it. Do the math. Felt the calculations in the backdrop of his mind. It would be close. He breathed cobalt power, lightning arcing against the space around him. Wings beating, urging them on. Evanne wasn’t heavy, not for a dragon. But the gate was a long way away. So far up, and he’d come such a long way. I may have miscalculated. Love may have to wait for the next life.

  Myryntir pushed himself harder anyway, because love seemed like a fun thing everyone should experience. His heart beat against his chest, an organ larger than an entire person. Evanne’s hand was on his scaled hide, which he shouldn’t be able to notice because she was a gnat, but he felt her right there. And heard her, as if she whispered into his ear, like they were gathered around a campfire, her jolly with whiskey and him having eaten an entire cow. Myryntir heard the breath of her song, even though there was no wind here, and she had a helmet on. He felt Evanne, and wondered if this is what love might feel like, the tiny bloom of it where it all begins. Because she sang to him, the two of them here in this not-place, where no starlight lived, and where they were going to die together.

  In a world of fire and thunder,

  Underneath the skies so wide,

  Myryntir, my loyal friend,

  With you, there's nothing I can't ride.

  Oh, Myryntir, my lightning's pride,

  Together, we'll reach the stars so high.

  Let the wind and lightning guide our way,

  We'll fly faster, higher, every day.

  With scales like sapphires, a heart so true,

  You're the strength that carries me through.

  Through storms and flames, we'll never tire,

  Together, we'll conquer and inspire.

  Oh, Myryntir, my lightning's pride,

  Together, we'll reach the stars so high.

  Let the wind and lightning guide our way,

  We'll fly faster, higher, every day.

  Ormeon awaits, your love's desire,

  But first, we must conquer the raging fire.

  With every beat of your mighty wings,

  We'll soar above, where destiny sings.

  Myryntir, let the lightning roar,

  As we break through the thunder's core.

  With courage and love, we'll ascend,

  To a love story, we'll forever mend.

  Oh, Myryntir, my lightning's pride,

  Together, we'll reach the stars so high.

  Let the wind and lightning guide our way,

  We'll fly faster, higher, every day.

  With hearts ablaze, and skies so vast,

  Our love and courage, they will last.

  Myryntir, my winged dream,

  Together, we'll fly faster, it would seem.

  So spread your wings, and let's take flight,

  To reach our love's eternal height.

  With Myryntir by my side, I know,

  We'll fly faster and never let go.

  He roared, blazing an arc of lightning across the coal black sky, and surged forward. He felt her fade, the spark inside her giving out as they went faster. Some twinkle of magic remained in her armour, its grip on him holding tight, and he beat his wings, faster, faster, FASTER.

  The missiles impacted below. The light of uncreation bloomed, tearing through the demon’s realm, hungering for them. But he was Myryntir, he was lightning’s pride, Evanne said so, she said so, and she said he would fly fast. Roaring again, he put on a last burst of speed, and made the gate. Burst through, just as it snapped shut behind him.