Page 165 of Silvercloak

Saffron collapsed.

Levan burst into the room, roaring his own grief, hurling himself at his father.

Auria was the last Silvercloak standing.

Segal stared blankly at the felled kingpin.

Whipping around, Levan stabbed his wand at Auria, eyes alight with grief. “Sen ammorten.”

Auria fell dead, pale and empty.

Every inch of Saffron wailedno,but no sound left her mouth.

Think!she screamed internally.Reroute!

Levan now had his father’s weaverwick wand in his hand, Rasso by his side, incanting the timeweaving spell over and over, even though it had never worked for him, even though it likely never would.

Auria wasdead,and Saffron had no more magic.

Unless …

She dug into her pocket and pulled out the painmaker.Artan had said that Eqoran Timeweavers had used them during the civil war, to inflict massive, life-saving pain.

Magic had only ever worked on Saffron once before, at Levan’s hand. But she had felt the call, the thrum of this device back in Artan’s, and some curious instinct told her this time it would be different.

It was the only play she had left.

“Az’alamis,” she begged hoarsely, not truly thinking about what she was doing, about how much pain she could stand, about how this infernal device was just as likely to fell her as it was to fuel her, just willing it towork.

And it worked.

It worked so suddenly and violently that the world was drenched scarlet.

This pain was not the circular sear of a brand, nor the bright sharpness of a cut, nor the lancing burn of a whip.

This was a rusty nail hammered into every nerve ending in herbody. She could not scream, could only fall endlessly down the open shaft of agony, existing only as an afterthought to the pain, unable to move or speak or breathe, only tohurt.

She could not drop thesaqalamis,could not unfurl her fist, and so the pain kept going.

She was the pain, and the pain was her, a long implosion, an utter annihilation.

Then someone ripped the black quartz from her hand.

The world lightened from deep red to faded watercolor. Levan crouched at her side, breathing hard, existential horror on his once empty face, thesaqalamisin his own hand, disarmed.

And the sliver of magic in her well was liquid gold.

She grabbed the weaverwick wand from his loosened grip and whispered, “Tempavicissan.”

Another almighty wrench, more smudged silhouettes, more pain, always pain, why did everything hurt so much?

She let go. The whirling stopped. Levan was no longer beside her, and thesaqalamiswas back in her pocket.

Aspar’s killing curse struck Lyrian’s heart.

Silence rang out all around, but the blood roared in Saffron’s ears.

She collapsed to the ground. When had she stood back up?

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