Page 84 of The Midnight Death Match

“And the others?”

“The others will do what they’ve always done. Wait, watch, and prepare.”

The third one is already beginning to fade, her form becoming translucent around the edges. “The girl has friends. Allies. People who would die for her. More every day.”

“And people whohavedied for her,” the first adds.

“Yes. That makes her dangerous. And dangerous things…” The third’s voice grows distant as she continues to fade. “Dangerous things must be handled with care.”

The forest darkens as the three vanish, one by one, leaving only the faintest impression of their presence—that the world has shifted in a fundamental way.

The withered trees return to their natural state as magic fades, branches gnarled and lifeless. The stars wheel back into their proper positions, but the wind that rises in their wake carries more than the scent of ash and dying magic.

It carries whispers. Plans. The echo of ancient names that should not be spoken aloud. Through it all, one word drifts on the night air, spoken by voices that might be wind or might be something else entirely.

“Soon.”

In the distance, a wolf howls—free now, but confused by its freedom. It doesn’t know its cry is answered by things that arenot wolves, that have never been wolves, that remember when the world was young and the boundaries between realms were drawn in starlight.

The figures are gone, but their presence lingers like a stain on the world.

In the far distance, where a girl grieves for a father who chose death over corruption, the first threads of a new pattern begin to weave themselves into the fabric of magic itself.

The curse is broken.

But some things are worse than curses.

Some things are weapons.

Chapter

Thirty

EIRA

My entire body hurts,and though I slept, it doesn’t feel like I did. My father is dead, and the world is carrying on as if nothing happened. The stars went down and the sun came up.

I’m now an orphan.

The dawn burns without any fanfare. No trumpets of fate. Just pale gold filtering through the broken sanctuary dome, laying long shadows over the stone.

Tears well in my eyesagain. I can barely move. My mind has gone over the events a million times. I could’ve done a hundred things differently, and Einar would still be here. Not dead.

My neck and legs ache from where I’ve curled beside him all night. His face is unusually peaceful, touched with ash and light, his blade laid across his chest like an old promise finally kept.

I press my forehead to his, whispering the words I couldn’t say last night. “I’m sorry. I wish we’d have found another way. Thank you. I’m not ready, but I will make this mean something somehow.”

My sword is silent and without a glow at my touch. If the curse is broken—like it feels it is—then the sword’s magic may never work again.

I rise and take in my father one last time before I bury his blade in the dirt beside the sanctuary stones and build him a cairn from the shattered remnants of the altar. When that’s done, I can avoid his burial no longer.

I place a stone on him. Another, then another.

Harek appears at my side and adds more, his presence a steady thread in the silence. When he finally does speak, after my father is hidden beneath the rocks, his voice is low. “He would’ve wanted you to keep going.”

“I know.” My voice cracks, and I don’t dare say more.

He takes my hand in his and leads me around the sanctuary to the edge of a cliff. Something about the building catches my attention. Somehow, it seems less in ruin than before.

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