Chapter 28

Sorcha didn’t respond, her gaze glued to the woman beside him. A veil covered her from head to toe—concealing her features and shape, only hinting at the tall woman beneath the fabric. Sweat prickled along Sorcha’s scalp, the hair on the back of her neck rising.

The woman pulled at the fabric—yards and yards of sheer crimson layered with delicate cotton. Bracelets tinkled on her wrists, gold and rubies flashing. Familiar bracelets. Ones that Sorcha had seen every day for years.

A chasm opened beneath her feet, and her stomach dropped into it. Fate struck her, the truth of the moment emerging, pinning Sorcha motionless to the earth.

The woman threw back the last bit of fabric. That face. The high priestess—mentor, mother, friend. Hair so blonde it was almost white, and blue eyes the color of turquoise. Sorcha had wanted to be this woman, confident and contained, whole and her own person within the Aureum Sanctus.

Since the fall of the Golden Citadel, Sorcha had believed that Kahina Kira had been dead. Burned to ash like the others.

Sorcha had been sent out into the world to retrieve the relics. A duty she’d never expected to perform, but if she had, this woman would have been beside her for the whole journey. For months, she’d believed she was alone.

Yet here was Kahina Kira, the high priestess.

“I thought you were dead,” Sorcha whispered.

Part of Sorcha wanted to run to the woman, to throw her arms around her and cry. Cry for everyone, for everything that had changed. For the horror that had entered the world and altered everything about their lives. She wanted the easy comfort of before—understanding and acceptance. But another part, one born in the months since the fall of the Citadel—born out of bogs and sea cliffs, the woman who had risen from the ruins, capable of slipping a knife into the heart of a believer—knew that if she did, she’d be giving it all up. It would be like turning her back on the woman she’d become. Fragile in so many new ways, but growing stronger, more certain of what she was capable of accomplishing.

And all this time, each grueling mile into the Red Wastes—the plodding of the horses and the pace the empress set—Kahina Kira had been within reach. There had been an opportunity to close the distance between them, to reveal herself in private, for a joyful reunion to happen.

But Kira had waited until now, standing before the Red Tower with Prince Eine as her witness, to reveal herself.

Sorcha sucked in a breath, aware of the group surrounding them.

The prince’s men were watching, curious or uninterested, half laughing or sneering, or even indifferent. Had Adrian known? Or were they all witnessing this revelation for the first time?

It was wrong. It wasn’t how someone who loved you would act—they wouldn’t wait to be reunited in a moment like this.

Sorcha remained where she was, even as Kira’s lip trembled and tears gathered on her lashes. She wanted to scream.

Have you been with the prince this whole time? Did you know I went out there alone to collect relics? To face monsters? Why did you leave me? Why did you wait until now?

“Have you been helping him this whole time?” Sorcha finally asked.

“I wasn’t helping him,” Kira replied firmly. “I was helping you.”

“If you were helping me, why weren’t you with me? Why did you let me believe you were dead?”

“I had to,” she responded, irritation flashing across her features. “You had to do it on your own. Even if I had been with you, I would not have been able to help.”

“What about supporting me?” Sorcha shook her head, squeezing her hands into fists. So many gazes were on her, but she wanted to search out Adrian, discover if his eyes would tell her if he’d betrayed her as well. “You could have simply been there. Instead, you’re here, at the end of it all, with the prince. You’ve been here this whole time.”

A memory skipped across her mind, the stream where they’d stopped before to rest. The woman at the water’s edge, standing and silent, refusing to acknowledge Sorcha’s greeting.“It was you by the stream.”

Kira remained silent.

“And what do you want from me now?” Sorcha asked. “What do you think you can achieve here? Because that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because this is the end of some long game for you. This is the moment your desires are realized.”

Sorcha turned her green gaze to the prince. His face was set, blank and smooth, except for glinting knowledge deep in his eyes.

Kahina Kira snorted, drawing Sorcha’s attention back, sending rage coursing along each vein.

“Are you enough of a child to want a confession? Or do you need an apology to ease your soul?” Kira’s voice was harsh now.

Sorcha’s tongue felt thick—mouth full of saliva—as Kira became the harsh mistress she remembered from early childhood. Sorcha refused to cry, focusing on the anger building in her chest, the heat and burn of betrayal—the sorrow of abandonment.

“I want nothing from you.” Sorcha looked at the prince again, meeting his eyes, and repeated it. “Nothing.”

“You will need my help,” Kira said, taking a step forward. “You will need me in the days to come. This is not the end.” She extended her arms, offering the warmth she’d withheld. “There is more to do. So much you wouldn’t have been able to understand until now. I can finally tell you the whole story.”

A sneer touched Sorcha’s face, distorting her features, muscles twisting. “You mean my death? Will you help me die? That’s something you never taught me. You never explained that my death would be the last piece of this magic.”

“We all die,” Kira said, voice low but fierce. “But some of us return.”

“But not me,” Sorcha gritted out between clenched teeth. A noise caught her attention, and her gaze flicked behind Kira. Adrian watched them, hand on his sword, but it was impossible to read him—to understand what he might be thinking behind his black eyes. “Why haven’t you tried before?”

Kira shook her head, reaching for Sorcha, flinching when the younger woman took a step back. “It’s never been that easy. It had to be at the right time, beneath the right stars. We’ve waited hundreds of years for this moment.”

The golden star on the horizon. Of course, it was important, but it was also just a star millions of miles away. What would a celestial body know of a dead god and his little religion determined to resurrect him? It all washed over Sorcha, leaving her hollow. And it was as the creature in the bog had said—she wasn’t special, she was only in the right place at the right time.

Sorcha turned away, turned to the cart where the relics glittered, glinting in the sun as it moved toward the horizon. It would set in a few hours, another night spreading through the world, and the golden star would shine as brightly as a small sun. But she would not be here to see it.

He was there in that moment when her attention was drawn to the relics. The Saint’s voice, touching her mind—reaching across the vast distance between life and death. The words were unintelligible, but she understood the tone and rhythm—promises and endearments. She’d carry his voice with her now forever, the murmuring nothings, taking them into her own personal darkness.

“Sorcha,” Kira began but paused, clearing her throat. “This can’t happen without you. Time is limited, the window is small, and we need to act now. You can change the past and bring back Ines and Rohan. You’re being given a chance that anyone would take.”

“The Saint will return,” Sorcha said, staring unflinchingly at Kira. “And I’ll be dead. You never taught me that part.”

“I don’t know what will happen with the Saint,” Kira admitted. “But yes, you will die.”

“The Saint will bring the empress back.” Prince Eine’s voice was steel, cutting across them, reminding Sorcha where and who she was with. “It’s time to begin.”

* * *

DEATH IS NOT THE END.

The words over the arch were huge, cut into the stone in hard, straight lines. They appeared to glow from within, as if beneath the solid surface of the tower, molten lava surged and flowed.

Sorcha shivered, a pit opening in her stomach, expanding to sink down to her toes. The people behind her were afraid. No one knew what would happen when the Saint breathed again. Not even Kira. And now they knew even his chosen vessel would not survive his rebirth. What would it mean for them? She could feel their uncertainty, a counterpoint to Prince Eine’s single-minded determination and Kira’s strange peace. She didn’t envy them. Didn’t pity them. Everyone had made a choice to be here.

In the distance, thunder rumbled, rolling out across the landscape and echoing in the tower. The horizon was black, the volcanoes on the horizon smoking. She could stand here and wait for it to arrive—delay the final moment—but there was no point. More than anything, she wanted to complete the one mission of her life. Even as another part of her screamed in defiance.

“Sorcha.”

She closed her eyes as Adrian’s voice washed over her, consuming her. In the dark, when there had been no one else around, he’d said her name like that. With longing. With intention. Mine. She hadn’t expected to hear it here, with Eine and Kira between them, with Revenant poised to kill them all.

“No!” Kira commanded, voice rising sharply. “Do not stop her. She must go in alone.”

A shaky breath escaped Sorcha, sweat pricking along her scalp and beneath her arms. Had he taken a step toward her? If she turned and ran to him, would he wrap her in his arms? Would he drag her to Nox and Epona so they could ride off into the Wastes as if this were some lover’s story? Death would follow them. And she would be dragged back to stand in this exact spot once again.

Forward. It was the only way. With Adrian’s gaze hot between her shoulder blades, Sorcha passed beneath the words—their promise and threat—and into the dim interior. The building trembled, stone grating against stone as thunder rolled closer. Her heart raced, thudding painfully in her chest, the scent of dry decay rolling over her. She hesitated on the threshold, glancing over her shoulder.

Adrian stood beside the prince with hands clasped, stoic and calm, seemingly detached from the situation despite having spoken her name. Revenant stood beside him, glaring at her. But it was Prince Eine’s face that made her heart skip with fear. He wore an expression of ravenous intent—pure hunger and determination.

He’d worn a similar look each time she’d met him. But it had intensified. She’d felt like an object at every turn. Now she was even less than that. Her only worth lay in opening a door he wanted to walk through. Sorcha, a key and missing puzzle piece, was on the verge of achieving his desire, and she could be pushed aside.

Soldiers were removing the relics from the cart one by one—preparing to carry them to the top of the tower. Sorcha wasn’t sure which idea frightened her more. The Saint coming together and standing up in a world hundreds of years after his death or the pieces failing to align and Prince Eine killing her. Would Adrian be ordered to cut her down? No, Revenant would do it gladly and ensure it was as painful as possible.

“He’s waiting for you, Sorcha,” Kira called. “Prepare to meet your god.”

* * *

Sorcha pushed through the glistening curtain of spider webs, tiny droplets of moisture trembling as she broke through to the inner tower. It rose high above her, the interior hollow with an oversized staircase climbing the outside, circling all the way up to a floor at the top. A ribbon of light slid through an opening above, flowing down the walls, catching in the spiderwebs and illuminating threads of gold in the black and red stone. At some point, the tower had crumbled, cracking apart, and a huge hand had repaired it with gold. Beneath her feet, the tile was dirty, but she could make out the mosaic story embedded there. Another legend of the Saint, another piece of his history. A piece of her history.

Movement to her left, beneath the stairs, caught her attention. A large black spider with red markings skittered across the floor, heading for the opposite wall and moving up it quickly. Sorcha gasped, taking a step back.

“What is it?” Prince Eine called.

“Spiders,” Sorcha replied, raising her voice to be heard.

There were more of them than she’d realized, crawling over the walls, camouflaged against the black and red stone. Some were tiny, and others were as large as cats. Bodies glossy and spindly, skittering with an inhuman and predatory grace.

Sorcha studied the stairs, hoping they would hold her weight on the way up, counting the landings silently. It would be a long climb.

Straightening her shoulders, she headed for the base of the stairs. The tower trembled, the floor vibrating with movement as something deep within the earth shifted and rolled. Sorcha extended a hand to steady herself on the wall and yelped, jerking back quickly. The stone was hot to the touch, her palm stinging with the contact.

The stairs were wide enough that she could avoid touching the wall again, but there was no railing or lip to catch her if she fell. Working to keep her mind calm and shutting down any stray what-if or but,she climbed. Even the memories. Even the feel of Adrian. Even the sensation of his mouth pressed to hers and the curling delight that had filled her body like light.

Sorcha worked to keep it all away. Forget the past. Do not acknowledge the future. Concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Breathe and climb, climb and breathe, until she reached the top. Everything would be considered then. But it was hard to keep her mind still, so she began counting golden seams in the stone, following the spiral up. Reaching the top step, she paused and glanced down, regretting it immediately. The height from this perspective was dizzying—leaving her gasping.

“Are you here?” Sorcha asked, turning to the room at the top. She felt silly the moment the words left her mouth. The Saint was below her still, waiting to be brought up, but she’d expected to feel him in this place the way she had in the valley.

This place was empty but expectant. The wall’s open arches overlooked the boiling red plains with a peaked roof overhead. Here, each golden crack in the stone flowed together, meeting at a center point. They formed a perfect circle, slightly dished, from which each golden thread radiated outward—weaving through the tower like roots, like veins in a blackened heart.

Mosaics covered the ceiling. Everywhere she’d gone, carefully laid out stories waited to be rediscovered—the sea cave, the remains of the ruined temple in the Silvas, the dead city. A legend of the Saint everywhere, little collections, fragments of his story, and as she’d put it all together, horror had built, quiet, insistent, knowing dread of how it all would end.

He was a loving, generous Saint. That was what she’d been taught. A creature who protected and championed his followers. But the stories she’d seen were the opposite. Again and again, she’d seen destruction and death, dismemberment and torture, and here, a golden skeleton sat on a dark throne, watching this forsaken room and waiting.

The hollow eye sockets seemed to follow her as she moved, circling the room. She treasured each final second of solitude. The prince would be getting impatient. He would want to know what was taking so long. He would want to know if she’d uncovered any traps or hidden dangers as she’d moved up the tower step by slow step.

Kira had insisted that Sorcha enter alone. Now Sorcha wondered if it was because the woman had wanted to gift her a few peaceful moments before the end, here in this empty shell waiting for the Saint.

A voice called up from the foot of the tower, but she couldn’t make out the words. The stone muffled them, and the wind pushing through the arches stole them away. She went back to the opening and stepped back inside to peer down the hollow interior. Small figures were grouped at the bottom, Prince Eine and his men. Adrian.

“Is it safe?” Revenant called up.

Sorcha almost said no. But it wouldn’t keep them away. Revenant would simply find out for himself. It was nothing more than a delaying tactic that would gain her nothing.

“Yes,” she called down.

The word echoed in the space, growing quieter, the mournful sound twisting in her stomach.

Yes, it is safe. Yes, this is the end.

She turned away and wrapped her arms around herself, gaze drifting back to the steaming plains.

There were no barriers to keep her from walking off the edge of the tower. She would simply plummet to the earth. Prince Eine would never get what he wanted then. But her own curiosity would never be satisfied either. There would be no way to know if everything she’d been taught was true. Her whole purpose in life had been—was—the Saint. How could she turn her back on the only thing she’d been raised to do?

Fear coursed through her, a river, an ocean with rising tides.Sorcha had to know. Morbid curiosity filled her. And if there was a chance, however small, that Ines might live—that Rohan and the others would return—she had to take it. Promises had been made. She couldn’t bear the idea of turning her back on them now after coming so far.

Closing her eyes, she listened to the thunder rumbling and leaned into the warm wind. It pushed at her skirts, pulling at her hair. It brought the scent of the hot and pungent springs. Pulling in a deep breath, she held out her arms, and for a moment, she was on the edge of a cliff, water beating at the rock, a cave full of living skeletons waiting for her. The memory of that place echoed through her, and with it, the remembered warmth of Adrian’s embrace.

“Will you jump?”

Adrian stepped onto the platform, rising out of the stairwell like a demon summoned by memory and desire. His dark eyes were unreadable, features set in a flat expression.

She wanted to run to him, to throw her arms around him and lean in, knowing he would hold her up and keep her safe. His touch would tell her the things he could not say.

I loved you in the ruins of a city. I loved you beneath a burning sky filled with stars.

I love you now when the world is ending.

Sorcha opened her mouth to ask him if what filled her exploding heart matched his. But neither one of them spoke, their gazes locked in understanding. He came to stand beside her, the back of his hand brushing hers, as they stood together overlooking the Wastes. Tears filled her eyes as she pulled in a breath, lungs constricting. The sounds of boots on stone reached her—the group reaching the top of the stairs with their heavy burdens and terrible intentions.

“Finally,” Prince Eine said, breathing heavily from the climb.

His greedy gaze swept the room, taking in the two of them standing together. A tight smile flitted across his features. He was enjoying the torture of it all. The way they looked at each other and away, the inescapable fate rushing toward them like an arrow. Soon. It ended here, a journey of months and thousands of miles, brought to a point where the world could only turn in one direction, and there was no other way out of this tower beyond death.

“You have no idea how long I’ve lived for this moment.” Kira appeared next, one hand lifting her skirts as the other went to her throat, eyes dancing across the mural overhead. She radiated joy—glowing, intense, painful exultation. Her eyes dropped, finding Sorcha. The smile was directed at her now, and she came forward, holding her hands out—golden bracelets tinkling, rubies catching the light. “You are such a gift, Sorcha. Let me help you with this.”

“I want nothing from you,” Sorcha said, pulling back from the woman’s grasping fingers. The anger in her tone flattened, voice dropping. “You died in the Citadel. To me, you’ve been dead for months. You abandoned us.”

“That’s not true,” Kira said, glaring now, reaching up to adjust the veil still attached with a ribbon of gold woven through her hair. Beautiful even now, with her vicious heart exposed, a woman Sorcha had wanted to be more than anything. “I made a choice. And even though you might not be able to see it now, it was the right choice.”

“The choice to let us all die?”

“You have no idea what I’ve been through, Sorcha. What it’s taken to reach this point.”

“You could have talked to me! Explained things!”

Kira’s eyes narrowed. “You could never understand.”

“You made the choice to keep me ignorant.”

“Lifetimes. Whole entire lives strung out like beads on a necklace, wrapped around my throat, suffocating me.” Kira’s hands moved to her pale throat, elegant fingers digging into the flesh. Her eyes glittered madly, chin lifted. “Let me help you, here, at the end. Let me help you.”

“No,” Sorcha said.

The word bounced off the floor, hitting the walls and then the high-domed ceiling over their heads—catching in the bones of the Saint, thrown back by the glimmering gold. The tower shivered, stone vibrating against stone, and in the distance, thunder boomed across the Wastes.

Kira closed the distance between them and grabbed Sorcha’s wrists, cold fingers biting into her skin and holding her in place. Her face reddened with anger, eyes hard with malice.

“You stupid girl,” she hissed, spittle collecting in the corners of her mouth. “You need me.”

“I don’t.” Sorcha fought to keep her voice calm and level. “I understand enough.”

“You think so? Then what does the Amor Aeternus say about this moment?”

The Amor Aeternus. A book made from the Saint’s heart—living rubies and gold. It was a myth. Whispered about between the priests and priestesses, briefly mentioned in the texts shelved in neat rows in the library. Once, when she had been a child, she’d asked Rohan about it. The man had laughed and told her it was only a legend—the Saint’s blood crystalized and solid, imbuing life well beyond the allotted years. An object capable of showing the past and present, a way to look at the world through the eyes of a deity. But the man had said it would have been destroyed in the war that killed the Saint. If it had ever existed at all.

“It’s a myth,” Sorcha said. But her tongue was thick in her mouth, heart beating erratically as unease overtook her. “Rohan said it never existed.”

“I have it,” Kira whispered, reaching for Sorcha again. This time, Sorcha went, their faces almost touching as Kira continued. “I have it with me now. It’s not a myth. Not a story. I made it. He gave me his heart. He will be reborn here, birthed out of your blood and sacrifice, but he will not be complete. He will not be whole. There are more relics to find. Another sacrifice to make.”

Gave her his heart? How? When?

Sorcha shook her head. “Someone would have told me. I’m the vessel.”

Her whole existence came down to it, her reason for being—an empty object in which to collect the life of a god. She studied the rituals. She’d practiced each task they’d given her. She’d focused on each lesson, not wanting to fail or disappoint them. All of them.

But especially this woman.

“Do you think you would learn everything so soon? There are libraries that you have never even seen. Only a few know the Amor Aeternus is even a reality. Even fewer have seen or touched it. Less have read it.” Kira let out a shuddering breath. “I’ve kept his heart close.”

Sorcha held her breath, skin tingling.

“Beyond this place, beyond this life, more will be required of you,” Kira said. “Death is not the end.”

Sorcha tried to pull away, a noise of distress escaping. She felt Adrian beside her, tense and listening, the air thick with questions. Her gaze bounced around the room, landing on Prince Eine’s hunger, Revenant’s fury, and fear on the advisors’ faces. The empress’s body had been brought up, but Sorcha had been so focused on Kira, she’d been unaware of the room becoming crowded with people.

“He will need to find himself. He will need the other pieces of his body.” Kira’s fingers dug into Sorcha’s muscle, breaking the skin on her wrists. “He will be vulnerable until they are all brought together, until he is complete.”

“Then how can he be brought back now?”

“Blood is powerful magic.”

“Is that why you’re here, then?” Sorcha pulled free, stumbling backward. “You’ve promised to be useful and bring the remaining relics together? That’s why the prince let you live, isn’t it? And now you will stand before the Saint and promise to make him whole.”

Kira shook her head, brows coming together. “No, you don’t?—”

“Stop.” Sorcha held up her hand and closed her eyes, ears ringing. “You let our family die and hid yourself for your own selfish reasons.”

“Because I love the Saint!” Kira shouted, her words bouncing off the ceiling. “If there was more time, I would be able to explain.”

“There is none left,” Prince Eine said, coming to stand beside Kira. He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing until his knuckles went white. “It’s time to keep your promise.”

Sorcha was steady now, heavy calm blanketing her—soothing even as it suffocated. There was no escaping the fate that had brought them all to this place. She could meet it on her own terms, or she could be forced to accept it.

She would face it.

The prince’s advisors and soldiers had readied the space, placing the uncovered relics in the center of the gold circle in the floor. The women traveling with the empress were carefully unwrapping the decomposing body to one side of the bones. The putrid scent of death was barely covered by the incense they were lighting. Revenant stood by the stairs, sword in hand, as he watched it all unfold.

Prince Eine looked from Kira to Sorcha. Had Kira given him everything? Or had she let something slip now that she’d never intended him to know?

“I have to prepare,” Kira said, eyes flat now, distant.

Sorcha swiped at the tears collecting on her lashes, tilting her face up. The women moved around the room, lighting torches and placing them in the brackets along the arches. Kira knelt among the relics and adjusted them, caressing them. Eine hovered near his mother, watching the priestess’s hands. Revenant paced behind the prince, wearing an expression of distrust and revulsion, disgusted with the red witches and their blood sacrifices.

One of the women brought a basket forward, pulling items from it and handing them to Kira one by one. A shallow gilded bowl. A knife. A vial. A raw shard of ruby. A large golden circlet. Each object was carefully arranged as Kira murmured to herself—weaving prayer and promise together. Thunder rumbled, beams of sunlight piercing through the clouds, falling across the landscape, and moving toward the tower. Sorcha watched the world shifting and changing below her as pressure built in her chest.

“The Saint is waiting,” Kira said, cold and distant, motioning to the floor, to the ceremonial dagger and a vial of poison. “Choose your death.”

“Which will it be, witch?” Revenant called, yellow eyes filled with hate as he adjusted the grip on his sword.

Sorcha turned to Adrian, closing the distance between them until only the space of a breath remained. His eyes pleaded with her silently, promising to burn the whole world down if she walked out of this tower with him now.

“There is a life beyond this,” Adrian whispered. “Come with me.”

When had he forgotten to hide his emotions? He’d been so good at it, unreadable, a solid black force moving through the world. But here was a man with a pale face and haunted eyes—fear and sorrow mingling, intertwined in his features.

Sorcha shook her head. Their paths had been leading here, to this moment, where he would ask, and she would refuse.

“I can’t.”

“You can!” He raised his voice, angry, frustrated, wanting her to let go of the last vestiges of her life. One she had never really wanted anyway.

“You’re talking as if I have a choice.” Her own voice rose, matching his. “Look around you. This is the final piece. Do you think your prince would let me leave now?”

Adrian shook his head, denial all over his body—face fierce. His eyes burned, reflecting the fire of the torches. She reached out and cupped his cheek, searching his face—determined to take his memory with her.

He leaned into her touch, throat working as he swallowed.

“It was always going to end here,” Sorcha whispered.

“Enough.” Prince Eine’s voice cut across them. “Choose your death, Vessel.”

Without speaking, Sorcha reached for the dagger at Adrian’s hip. The one she’d taken from the tent and cut him with in the forest, the one he’d given her on the sea cliff. It had been passed between them—gifted only to be returned. A shared object, a totem of their bond. He stopped her and shook his head once.

No.

But if death was here for her, this was how she wanted to meet it.

* * *

“You can’t ask me to do this,” he whispered; the anguish was a crushing weight, threatening to bury him in the earth. The life he’d begun to see, the shape of the world with her beside him, was slipping away.

“I can’t do it without you,” she said, unspoken words lingering between them. Bring me death. Take it. You’re the only one who can. You’re the only one I want with me in this moment.

And if he didn’t? Revenant would step forward, and her last moments would be brutal—full of unnecessary pain. He couldn’t face that, knew that afterward he would draw his sword and cut into their bodies, hack and hack until their blood mixed with hers. Now, after all this, after all that had come before, all that he had been, he wasn’t sure he could face that either.

Sorcha pressed the dagger into his hand, the tremble in her fingers so slight it could have been his own. The moment in the woods when she’d faced him, determined to draw blood, twisted into this one, pulling horror and darkness from the air to cloud his vision.

He took the blade and stepped forward, sweeping her into his arms and gripping her tight.She buried her face in his neck, wet tears touching him, as his heart split open. This was the end. The end of everything.

“Now,” she whispered, mouth brushing his skin, a soft kiss sealing in the word.

In a few quick steps, he carried her to the relics and knelt with her in the golden circle. The room faded around them, a tense hush falling, even the thunder growing quiet. Adrian searched her face, taking her in—pale features, haunted eyes. The same woman who had melted with his touch, shattered in his arms, only to be woven back together. The woman he loved with a heart he hadn’t known he possessed. The woman who had walked out of a burning city to change his soul.

Sorcha took his hand, bringing the blade to her throat, tears in her eyes. Here. Her mouth formed the word, but no sound came out. Here.

The stone was cold beneath them, ice creeping into his bones—into the cavern left by his dying heart.

His chest heaved. There wasn’t enough air in the space, not enough light. Panic clawed at the back of his throat, pressure building behind his eyes.

Adrian shook his head, and she tightened her grip—knuckles white with desperation, her body pleading for action. The blade against her throat shivered and reflected the room—dancing light, gold, jewels, the story of the Saint in the ceiling above them.

“Adrian.” Sorcha placed a hand on his chest—gentle but firm—touching the spot where his heart was. Would be. If he had one. “Now.”

Swallowing, he pulled in a shaky breath and pressed his forehead to hers, squeezing his eyes tight. Blood pounded in his ears, his life without her spinning out—meaningless and bleak. Someone said his name, Prince Eine or Revenant. The priestess was talking to one of the other women. But those sounds came from another world, outside their trembling bubble.

“Sorcha,” he whispered. Her name was barely more than a whisper, only breath ghosting across her skin.

He kissed her, demanding this last offering, taking it when she opened her mouth and her tongue slid against his. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, even as he held the knife at her throat.

He broke the kiss, tasting tears, and spoke his last words into her mouth. “I love you.”

He drew the blade across her throat, parting flesh.

She gasped, the sound bubbling, rasping, as she fought to breathe.

He closed his eyes, holding her as warmth spread across his hands and chest. Holding on even as she struggled and shook, hands fluttering, horrible sounds coming from her. Then she slowed, movements growing weaker, until her hands stilled, and she went limp. He choked on a sob, terrible aching pain flooding him—blinding and relentless.

“Put her down.” The voice came from far away, and Adrian looked up to meet Revenant’s gaze. “Time to leave.”

Kira tugged at Sorcha’s body, bringing the shallow dish to her neck to collect blood.

He stayed on his knees, watching numbly as the woman ladled blood over the relics, as the blood flowed out of Sorcha to pool beneath the Saint.

Revenant pulled on Adrian’s shoulder, dragging him to his feet and away from the center of the room.

Adrian couldn’t look away from Sorcha—bloody and lifeless. Beautiful in the way a dried flower is—a dead thing, a mimic of the living. Her eyes stared into nothingness, mouth open, as blood continued to flow.

Kira worked quickly, arranging Sorcha on the floor, folding her arms, and then closing her eyes. Her blood was everywhere—all over him, all over the Saint, all over Kira where she knelt in it and smoothed it over the golden bones. Prince Eine bent down, running his fingers through it, and turned to smear it across his decaying mother.

Kill them. Kill them all. Kill them now.

Rage—the color of Sorcha’s blood—stole over him. It built, crashing through the cold places in his mind, tearing through the barriers.

“Don’t.” Revenant’s voice was hard—a command, not a request.

The ground trembled, a vibration coming up through the tower, as a high note rang out. A bell chimed, high and sweet, the sound climbing and moving into a range beyond hearing. A woman shrieked, and an advisor came forward to pull the prince back, babbling about falling stones, the shaking tower. People were leaving, soldiers hurrying down the stairs, even as Kira remained, covered in blood, mouth moving in a silent prayer.

The sky was black, nothing but darkness beyond the arches. The torches smoked and jumped, yellow-orange light caressing the relics, catching in polished gems.

Then the relics began to vibrate. The bones danced toward each other, coming together, piece by piece, fitting together and held by magic.

The Saint sat up, head turning this way and that, a giant unbelievable creature. Without warning, he lunged and grabbed an advisor, dragging the man to his mouth. Blood gushed as golden teeth broke flesh, the man shrieking in anguish. An arm was torn away in one bite. In the next, the screaming stopped as his head was separated from his body. The Saint dropped the remains, reaching for the dead empress.

“Please.” Prince Eine was on his knees, hands up in supplication. “My mother. The priestess promised you would return her to me.”

The Saint gave no response as he picked up the empress—a leg detached, wrappings fluttered free—and bit into her.

Eine screamed, the noise coming up from his gut and echoing in the room. Thunder crashed, rattling the tower, and lightning raced across the sky to illuminate the scene. Eine darted forward, grabbing his mother’s arm, tugging until the hand separated at the wrist, and he fell back.

Bones crunched, cracking in the Saint’s jaw as he ate, the body vanishing into some unknowable interior space.

The priestess was talking so quickly her words ran together, jumbling and becoming nonsense. She laughed, reaching out to place her hands on the Saint—flesh to golden bone—leaning forward to press a kiss into him.

He paused before one hand came out in a wide, slow arc, fingers closing around her as his jaw opened.

“You promised!” Kira screamed, face twisting as she fought his grasp. “In every lifetime!”

The Saint paused, the words connecting with some distant part of himself. He set her down, and she stumbled away. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and one hand covered her mouth in an effort to smother the wails ripping out of her.

Eine screamed to get her attention, cheeks white and spattered with blood, his rich clothes disheveled. Kira stood rooted to the floor, sobbing and unable to look away from the Saint. Still clutching the decaying hand of the empress, Eine grabbed Kira and pulled her away, dragging her down the stairs after him.

The huge skeleton looked around, head swinging back and forth, empty sockets staring. His attention fell on Sorcha. The huge head tilted, taking in her crumpled figure, her blue-tinged lips. So much blood. He prodded her gently, and her head rolled to the side, exposing the wound. The Saint scooped her up in both hands, moving slowly—reverently. Sorcha’s limbs dangled grotesquely, dripping blood, as he raised her off the ground.

“No!” Adrian screamed, terrible dread filling him.

His sword was in his hand, though he had no memory of drawing it. Revenant was gone. Only the women, cowering and huddled together near the stairs, and himself remained. And Sorcha.

The Saint would consume her. Crush her between golden jaws. And she would truly be lost to him—ground into nothingness. But the Saint’s golden teeth remained closed as he stroked her bloody hair, cupping her skull gently as he brought her close. Delicately, cradling her as if she were precious, beloved, the creature pressed his huge teeth to her face—to her lips—in the mimic of a kiss.

Bile rose in Adrian’s throat, a scream trapped as he swallowed. She’s dead. Dead. He wanted to scream it, rip the world apart with his anguish. The only thing he was good for—good at—couldn’t help her now. The sword was an unpleasant weight in his hand. But he couldn’t move. Even as he screamed at himself to unstick his feet from the stone, he remained.

The Saint lingered over the kiss and stroked the small body he held, smoothing a finger over her neck.

A woman sobbed.

Sorcha’s fingers twitched, stopping Adrian’s breath—his heart a block of burning ice in his chest. Her eyelids fluttered open, a hand coming up to touch the Saint’s cheekbone as his face pulled away from hers, leaving her whole, uneaten. He moved slowly as he set her on her feet, steadying her with one golden, skeletal hand. She studied the Saint with a calm gaze, gripping his fingers like a child.

Sorcha lived.