Page 124 of Frost Like Night
The future even Angra should have had. One that may have been worse than the one he lived, yes, but it could have been far better. And even if it was worse, it would have been by his own doing. It would have been fair and true andhuman, a future free of magic, a life formed apart from darkness or light.
This has brought me nothing but death.
But from it, there will be life.
I scream and all the magic in me rushes outward, shattering the Decay’s hold on me. I drop, catching myself on the ground before more injuries can reverberate through me, and the moment I’m down I reach out to Mather, filling him with healing waves of pure ice. He bolts upright, the magic swarming him, his eyes on mine.
My attention snaps past him, to Theron, swinging his blade at Mather’s neck.
Mather darts to the left. The cut on his stomach is just a smear of bloodied cloth now, the skin healed and the muscles new as he lands on his elbows, bends, and missesTheron’s sword by a breath. The blade lances across the bag strapped to Mather’s back, so when he spins to kick Theron’s legs out from under him, items fly in a gust of rope and packets of food and—
A dagger, the hilt softly glowing purple. Cordell’s conduit?
I don’t have time to think about it. The particles of air shift around me, tingling along my arms in waves of warning. The magic here is the opposite of Angra’s—pure and untouched. And now, awoken, unleashed, with that same magic threading through my veins, I can feel the changes, when Angra’s Decay barrels at me.
So I move before he strikes me, and the blast of shadow he sends smashes into the wall. Chunks of rock scatter, but I whirl, punching a hand at Angra in a swift snap of defense, the one glorious loophole that lets me fight him, that let Oana fling bolts of lightning at me without feeding the Decay.
The source of magic hanging just beyond snaps and pops in response to my call, and it isn’t snow or ice I punch at Angra. It’s magic in its most basic form, a coiling strand that I redirect from the chaotic, striking path it had been on to explode the ground at Angra’s feet. He stumbles back, shouting in pain.
A grunt pulls my attention to Mather and Theron. Theron drops, his sword launching from his hand when his arm smacks into the ground. Mather leaps on him, onesolid blow knocking Theron’s head back into a rock and sending him bobbing in a dizzy swirl.
“You cannot take my power,” Angra declares, balling his hand, the Decay building around his fist in what will be a deathblow. “No one can take my power. This world is free, finally, from people likeyouwho seek to stifle it.”
He thrusts forward. Shadow fills the air, rotating strands of it that break apart into dozens of cloudy, dark fingers, all spiraling for me, all bent on destruction.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” I mutter.
All I feel as Angra’s magic dives for me is adrenaline, the resounding, delirious joy of this being over.
Because in two breaths, it will be.
I kick off a nearby stalagmite and leap over the first few funnels of Decay, curving my body in the air to avoid another. As I jump, I thrust my hand at Angra, channeling another bolt of magic that connects with the ground and propels him, faltering, to the very edge of the magic chasm’s cliff.
I’m still airborne, pushing myself on by a final surge of magic that floods my being with ice and snow. That chill whirls out of me, latches onto the nearest weapon—the dagger that fell out of Mather’s pack—and snatches it to me.
Through the sweat and blood that coat my face, I look down at where Angra wavers on the edge of the cliff.
And I smile.
The dagger’s hilt slams into my palm, magic bursting up my arm in a whirl of images and emotions. But they all fall silent in the face of my determination. There is nothing here—no distraction, no thought, only Angra and me and the end of the world.
The dagger shimmers purple in the dimness, reflecting the magic behind Angra. That flash draws his eyes, but too late, time morphing around this moment as if all the world holds its breath to watch me leap across the cliff, raise the dagger, and land, sinking the blade into Angra’s chest.
I send one last command at Mather. All too similar to the one his father shouted as the room crumbled around us.
Run!
Angra stumbles back, stunned enough for me to knock him off-balance even more. He teeters, trips, hands scrabbling fruitlessly at the air as I gain my footing on the cliff and push with every bit of strength I’ve ever possessed.
We teeter, both of us, my momentum and Angra’s weight dragging us over the edge.
A movement makes me look over my shoulder one last time. Mather, Theron’s arm draped around his neck, drags the half-conscious king for the exit. He doesn’t stop to look back at me, doesn’t pause to try to join me. He just obeys, tearing out of the chasm with one of his greatest adversaries leaning against him.
My feet leave the cliff with one final shove.
Angra screeches, dark magic streaming from him in a desperate attempt to pull himself back up. But the closer we draw to the magic source, the more electrifying fingers of it snap out and sizzle his attempts. I’m ready too—I will not let him stop me, and for every trembling grasp at salvation he unleashes, I slam into him with waves of my own magic. Light and dark, purity and decay, as the source of magic grows brighter and closer and hotter.
There was a time in my life when I would have given anything for magic. Ididgive anything for magic—I threw myself headlong into a centuries-old war. But I did it also for Winter, for the people I loved, because that was what they needed to live a safe and healthy life.
