The trunk creaks as I open the trunk lid a little further. Cold air slips in, carrying the smell of damp stone, old blood, and the sour, unmistakable tang of corruption. Something whimpers somewhere in the darkness. Something else gives a low, choked growl. The sound echoes around the stone room.

  I raise my hand and let a single fingertip spark to life. The light pushes the dark back, revealing cages—seven or eight of them—each holding a trembling, corrupted creature with faint violet eyes.

  Slumped against the wall next to the exit door is a fat guard with his head tilted back, snoring softly.

  I squint my eyes. *What a weird place to sleep…*

  I raise my other hand to cup the flame, putting the guard in its shadow so as not to wake him.

  I dim the flame as I carefully slide out of the trunk. The beasts shift at my presence, growling.

  Glancing back to the guard, I try to think of a plan as to how I should proceed.

  I look around at the cages and the stacks of crates around me. I take a deep breath, then shove one hard. It crashes to the floor with a violent clatter. I duck behind a crate and immediately put out the light.

  The guard jolts upright with a strangled gasp as he fumbles for his sword. Before he can get his bearings, I grab a metal bucket and slam it against the wall. The sound explodes through the chamber, echoing off stone.

  The animals react instantly with howls and screeches. A beast slams its body against the bars. I seize the nearest cage and rattle it hard, adding my own roar to the chaos—deep, guttural, animal. The kind of sound that makes a man’s blood run cold, then I grab something from the floor and hurl it at the far wall.

  CRASH!

  Before the echo dies, I throw another object closer to him.

  CLANG.

  Then another, even nearer—each impact creeping across the room toward his position.

  The guard curses— “No, no, no— something’s loose, SOMETHING’S LOOSE!” I hear him draw his sword and blindly swipe it around. He knocks something over, then I hear the sword clang against the wall. Metal skitters across stone as he loses his grip. The guard frantically feels along the wall until he finds the door, his breathing sharp and wet, each inhale catching in his throat as his keys slip in his shaking fingers.

  I let out a roar, and the keys jangle violently in his hands, striking the doorframe as he fumbles. His breath spikes into fast, shallow gasps, the sound of a man drowning on dry air. A thin, panicked cry escapes him as his hands scramble over the bolts. I shake the cages with a burst of ferocity, making the animals scream and thrash. I roar again, louder, and that breaks him.

  He lets out a terrified yelp, rips the door open, stumbles through it, then slams it shut behind him. His ragged breathing trails after him for a moment before the pounding of his boots takes over and fades into the corridor.

  The dungeon settles into a shaky quiet, the beasts whimpering and the stone dripping steadily somewhere deeper in the dark. I let out a slow breath and ignite my fingertip again, this time without cupping it. The small flame lights the room enough for me to move.

  I cross the room to the spot where the guard was sleeping and pick up the sword he abandoned. A crate sits beside where he was sleeping. It has a mug on top. I lean in, curious, and the smell hits me so sharply I recoil and scrunch my nose. *I don’t know what he’s been drinking, but it smells like… piss…* I gag at the thought of anyone drinking that.

  Along the floor, a few metal objects catch the light. I pull out a helmet—dented, but sturdy—and slide it onto my head. It sits a little crooked, but it’ll do.

  With my flame, I scan the cages, finding wolves inside, recoiling at my light.

  I step toward the nearest cage.

  The wolf inside is gaunt, ribs showing through patchy fur. Its eyes glow faint violet, the corruption pulsing like a heartbeat beneath its skin. It snarls and snaps its jaws at me.

  I remove my helmet, putting it aside, and place both hands on the cold bars.

  I bow my head, directing my thoughts to God, searching for the words to say.

  As I slowly inhale, words rise in my throat — words I’ve never heard, but somehow know.

  Softly, I begin to sing: “All creatures of our God and King…”

  The melody drifts into the darkness like warm breath on winter air.

  The bars beneath my hands grow warm, then glow, then shine.

  “Lift up your voice and with us sing… Hal-le-luu-yah”

  The corruption hisses — a wet, angry sound — and pulls back from the light. The wolf breathes, and the tension eases out of him, the violet draining from its eyes. Its breathing steadies. Its body relaxes. When it finally lifts its head, its eyes are brown again.

  I move to the next cage.

  The words come again, unbidden, carried on something deeper than memory:

  “Hal-le-luu-yah, Thou burning sun with golden beam… Thou silver moon with softer gleam… Oh praise Him, Oh praise Him, Halleluyah, Halleluyah, Hal-leluu-yahh!”

  The glow spreads through the metal.

  The corruption recoils.

  The wolf collapses as darkness leaves it.

  One by one, I move through the room.

  One by one, I touch the cages, bringing them to glow.

  One by one, the darkness loses its grip.

  “Ye who long pain and sorrow bear… praise God and on Him cast your care… Halleluyah, Halleluyah!”

  By the time I reach the last cage, the entire dungeon feels different. Touched — as if the love of God has seeped into the stone itself.

  The wolves lie quietly now, watching me with clear eyes.

  Some sit, some curl up, and not a single one growls.

  But the cages are still locked, and the keys are still missing.

  Still, the darkness — it’s not the one in control.

  I extinguish the flame at my fingertip and tighten my grip on the sword, letting my flame flow into it.

  The corridor ahead yawns open, dark and waiting. Time to go deeper.

  The corridor widens into a low stone chamber. The smell of putrid wet fur and corruption burns the back of the throat. Then the sounds follow. Whimpers. Snorts. A low, rhythmic scraping of claws against stone.

  Massive cages fill the room, iron?banded and reinforced as if meant to hold creatures far stronger than anything a sane man would keep underground. In the first, a boar the size of a small horse slams its shoulder against the bars, not to escape, but to fight something gnawing at its mind. Its eyes flicker between their natural brown and a sickly violet, foam flecking its tusks.

  The next cage holds something far worse — a creature so twisted by corruption I can’t tell what it is. Feathers.. Furr.. wing— or what might once have been wings — twitch uselessly against the bars. Its eyes blink rapidly, and it screams something fierce and unnatural with a dual pitch that is both high and low.

  Wolves fill the rest of the chamber — caged, some collapsed in corners. A few still fight the corruption, bodies tense, eyes wild. Others have already succumbed. They look beaten and tortured. Their movements are jerky, unnatural, as if their limbs no longer remember how to obey them. One drags itself in circles, whining in a low, broken rhythm. Another presses its head against the bars, breath coming in ragged, corrupted gasps.

  A soft, pained growl draws my attention to the last cage.

  A wolf lies there, barely breathing. Its ribs show through its fur. Its eyes flicker — violet, then brown, then violet again — as if two forces are fighting over it. I kneel beside the bars. My flame brightens. The corruption recoils. The wolf lifts its head, trembling, as if recognizing something in me.

  I rest my hand on the cold iron.

  The hymn returns rising in my chest — “Thou rushing wind that art so strong,

  Ye clouds that sail in heav'n along… Oh praise Him… Hal-le-lu-yah!”

  Warmth spreads through the bars. The violet fades. The wolf convulses once, then exhales a long, shuddering breath. When it lifts its head again, its eyes are clear. A shaggy mastiff stares back at me, trembling but alive.

  “Thou flowing water, pure and clear… Make music for Thy Lord to hear… Hal-le-lu-yah, Hal-le-lu-yah!”

  The boar quiets.

  The twisted, feathered thing lowers its head, the corruption steaming from its body at just the sound of my voice.

  Even the corrupted wolves pause, their snarls faltering. I touch the cages one by one, bringing them to light.

  They feel the change. They feel the light. It is then that I realize what the feathered creature truly is.

  A griffin that was nearly lost. But not beyond reach.

  Each of the creatures in the room have been cleansed, but my heart is so full I can’t contain the song that continues to spill forth louder triumphantly down the halls.

  “Thou fire so masterful and bright… that givest man both warmth and light… Oh praise Him… Oh praise Him, Hal-le-lu-yah, Hal-le—

  I’m cut off as three angry figures burst into the room, lunging at me, baring daggers.

  The first that reaches me is tall and thin, all sharp angles and jerking limbs, as if the corruption is pulling him by invisible strings. His dagger flashes toward my throat. I twist aside, the blade grazing my shoulder. I drive my flaming sword upward in a tight arc. The light blinds him. He shrieks, stumbling back, and I step in, bringing the blade down with enough force to drop him instantly. He crumples, the smell of singed blood filling the air. The violet glow in his eyes snuffs out as he goes still.

  The second slams into me like a charging bull. Thick, heavy, breath rattling with every exhale. His weight drives me back into the bars of a cage hard enough to rattle the iron. The boar inside releases a rumbling huff, the sound vibrating through the metal as it shifts its weight, but does not panic.

  His dagger flashes toward my ribs.

  I catch his wrist mid?thrust, the blade stopping a hair’s breadth from my side. His strength is monstrous, fueled by corruption, and for a moment, the dagger trembles between us, inching closer as he leans his full weight into it.

  I don’t have enough room to swing my sword pinned like this. I hit him with the hilt and grit my teeth and drive my knee into him.

  Once.

  Twice.

  He barely reacts.

  All I can do is push him back as he snarls and tries to force his blade home.

  My hands and sword flare as they push him back on his wrist and on his chest. He recoils with a strangled cry, the arm gripping the dagger rips away from my grasp as he stumbles back, clutching at the burning light searing through the corruption inside him.

  He hesitates, eyes wide.

  But I don’t, I step in and swing, clean and decisive, and he drops with a burning sizzle.

  Then a woman laughs.

  A sharp, confident sound — the kind someone makes when they think they’ve already won.

  She steps out from behind a cage, hood slipping back just enough for me to see her face. Ordinary features. Calm expression. Nothing twisted or monstrous. But she carries a staff — polished wood, unassuming at first glance — until the crystal fixed at its top catches the light.

  A dark shard.

  Veined with violet.

  Pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat.

  She lifts it with practiced ease, and as she draws on its power, a thin violet sheen blooms across her eyes — subtle, but unmistakable.

  “You really think this ends with you?” she says, voice smooth and amused. “You’re one man with a spark.”

  The crystal flares.

  Dark energy coils around it, gathering tight and focused. The air warps, humming with pressure. She thrusts the staff forward, and the blast tears through the chamber, a streak of violet and black that twists the air as it comes.

  It hits me full in the chest.

  And breaks apart.

  The corruption dissolves against the flame without slowing me or dimming the light. I hear the hymn humming in my bones, steady and warm, and the fire in my sword burns unchanged.

  Her smile falters.

  I keep walking.

  Step by step.

  Through the fading smoke.

  Through the remnants of her blast.

  Through her disbelief.

  She tries to back away, but I’m already on her.

  My hand closes around the staff just below the crystal. She gasps, trying to wrench it free, but the flame surges through my arm, into the wood, into the stone, into the corruption itself.

  The crystal ignites.

  Violet light fractures.

  Dark veins crack.

  The staff shudders in my grip.

  I rip it from her hands and slam it against the stone floor.

  It shatters in a burst of fire and splintered wood.

  She stares at the broken pieces, breath trembling, eyes wide with a fear she can’t hide.

  Then she runs.

  A full, frantic flight down the corridor, scrambling over stone, desperate to escape the thing she just realized she can’t touch.

  I don’t run after her, but walk and watch as she runs to some large doors at the end of the corridor, the hymn humming low in my chest.

  The woman bursts through the massive doors, nearly losing her footing as she stumbles into the room. “Your Majesty!” she cries, breathless and terrified.

  “SILENCE!” The reply snaps across the stone like a whip, sharp with irritation rather than concern.

  I slow my approach as I reach the threshold, letting the scene unfold before me. The room is vast, built for something far larger than the people occupying it, and the sour, putrid scent of corruption is stronger here than it has been in any room so far. A shallow wading pool spreads across the center of the room, its oily surface catching the torchlight in sick streaks of violet and green that pulse in time with the ritualistic chanting.

  A large dragon lies half?submerged in the sludge, its once?bright green scales dulled by the filth. The corruption doesn’t simply cling to it; it creeps. Each rise and fall of the cultists’ chanting sends fresh tendrils sliding across the dragon’s hide, tightening around its limbs and chest like wet, pulsing restraints. The creature’s head rests heavily against the stone, its breath slow and ragged, its eyes half?open in a drugged haze that leaves it aware enough to feel the corruption feeding on it but too weak to resist. Along the walls, cages hold other trembling creatures, each slumped in a half?conscious state with early patches of corruption spreading across their bodies, arranged like offerings waiting for their turn.

  A ring of cultists circles the wading pool, their chanting low and rhythmic, seemingly breathing life into the sludge. At the dragon’s head stands the Queen, her posture composed and regal, a dark crystal necklace at her throat pulsing in perfect time with the corruption’s movement. She barely glances at the woman standing before her, her attention solely fixed on leading the ritual at hand.

  “Don’t fight it,” she murmurs, her voice thick with zealous fervor. “Embrace it!”

  A low table stands near the entrance, crowded with shallow ceramic bowls of crushed dark crystal. The powder smolders faintly, sending thin streams of corruption?laden vapor into the air. The weight of it hangs heavy in the air.

  I raise my flaming sword and bring it down hard on the table.

  CRACK! The table splits in a burst of fire and shattering clay. Burning crystal powder erupts across the stone in sparks, the sudden flare cutting straight through the chant. Several cultists gasp, their gaze jerking to me, their rhythm collapsing as the Queen’s voice wavers, struggling to hold the ritual together.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The nearest cultists break formation, hands tightening on blades and staffs as they surge toward me in a frantic, uneven wave, attempting to overwhelm me with numbers.

  I push through them with controlled force, knocking weapons aside, turning shoulders, letting their momentum carry them past me. A staff glances off my forearm, a blade catches the edge of my sleeve, but none of it slows my advance. Their chanting falters as I move through them, my flaming bursting with every clash. The corruption’s pulse stutters with the disruption, sending a shiver through the tendrils binding the dragon.

  The Queen steps back, her composure cracking for the first time as she realizes I’m not interested in fighting her followers — I’m here for her.

  As the Queen sees me closing the distance, she glares and thrusts a hand toward the corruption pool, snapping a command that cuts through the chamber like a crack of ice. The sludge responds instantly. Tendrils rise from the pool in a sudden, coordinated surge, sliding across the stone with wet, eager purpose. Before I can adjust my footing, two of them coil around my ankles and yank hard.

  The floor rushes up to meet me.

  My shoulder hits stone, the impact knocking the breath from my chest as my sword skitters out of reach, its flame sputtering out as it hits the ground. More tendrils seize the opportunity, wrapping around my calves and wrists, dragging me toward the pool with a strength that feels almost gleeful. The Queen steps forward now, confidence returning to her posture as she watches the corruption pull me in.

  “Your magic sword won’t save you,” she says, her voice low and triumphant. Another tendril rises beside her, thicker than the rest, pulsing with a slow, deliberate rhythm as it shapes itself into a tapered point. It hovers over me like a poised serpent, ready to force its way down my throat.

  For a moment, she truly believes she has won.

  Then heat gathers in my limbs. The tendrils around my ankles begin to boil, then recoil as a glow builds beneath my skin. The Queen’s expression shifts from triumph to confusion as the first flicker of fire breaks through the corruption’s grip, crawling up my legs in bright, searing lines.

  The corruption binding me withers, the tendrils shrinking back as the fire crawls up my legs. Their grip loosens just enough for me to take a breath. I reach for the holy stone in my pocket and bring it close to my lips, “Glory be to Thee, Heavenly Father,” I whisper.

  The warmth gathers instantly. The stone blossoms in flames, light spilling between my fingers as if it’s been waiting for this moment.

  I then toss it into the pool.

  The stone hits the sludge with a dull splash, and for a heartbeat, the chamber holds still. The pool bubbles, then ignites at once, fire racing across its surface in a sweeping bloom that turns the corruption into a sheet of burning light. The tendrils binding the dragon writhe as the Queen’s mouth falls open, shock and horror twisting her features as the flames surge higher, reflecting in every wide, disbelieving eye around the chamber.

  While they stare, I close the distance and take hold of her arm with one hand, and allow a large flame to burn in my other.

  “This is over. Tell your men to drop their weapons.”

  The Queen says nothing.

  I tighten my grip on her arm and haul her forward, forcing her off balance long enough for me to snatch my sword from the floor. The flame leaps back to life the moment my fingers close around the hilt, and I bring the blade up to her throat in one smooth motion. The heat of it paints her cheek in a trembling orange glow.

  “Tell your men to drop their weapons,” I say louder.

  Before the Queen says anything, one by one, blades and clatter to the polished stone. No one says a word, leaving only the roar of the burning pool and the low rumble of the dragon drawing large breaths as the corruption peels away from its scales.

  “Now open the cages!”

  No one hesitates. Keys are fumbled for, locks are thrown, and one by one the doors swing wide.

  As the door to the last cage opens, the dragon in the fire slowly blinks, the flames appearing to have cleansed it from its drugged haze. A deep rumble rolls through its chest as it lifts its head, the last of the corruption peeling away.

  Keys slip from hands, clattering to the floor as the cultist sees the dragon stirring. It flicks its tail and starts to take a stand.

  As it does, someone stumbles backward into a table. And another bolts for the far archway, shoving past the others. A staff clatters across the floor. Robes whip and tangle as bodies scramble toward the exits in a panic, tripping over each other on the way out.

  The dragon draws in a long breath, then turns toward the large doors leading into the corridor. Its wings clamp tight against its sides as it steps forward, claws scraping stone. It lowers its head and bursts through the doors, disappearing into the darkness beyond, claws hammering a steady rhythm as it picks up speed.

  A heartbeat later, a deep bang rolls back toward us from the far end — the sound of several hundred pounds of dragon slamming into the courtyard doors. Then the scratching starts. Hard, fast, furious. Claws tearing at wood. Hinges straining. The noise fills the corridor like something trying to dig its way out of a coffin.

  “IT IS GETTING OUT!” someone screams from somewhere behind the cages.

  I keep the Queen close as I inspect the cages that were just opened. The flame along my sword burns steady as I touch the tip harmlessly to the first creature’s side. The corruption recoils from the heat, peeling away in thin, smoking threads. The animal slowly blinks, dazed but quickly regaining its awareness.

  I move to the next. Then the next. The Queen stumbles as I pull her along, but she doesn’t resist. She’s listening to the sounds of the dragon at the end of the corridor, as it works at the doors, each strike louder than the last, every slam catching her breath.

  I then grab the keys on the floor and hurry to the cages we saw in the other rooms, opening each cage, setting everything free. All of the creatures immediately rush into the corridor behind the dragon.

  A final crack splits the air.

  The dragon forces its body through the weakened doors, wood splintering around it. It pushes again—harder—and the frame gives way. Light spills in from beyond as the dragon shoves itself through the opening and disappears into the courtyard beyond.

  The animals don’t hesitate. They surge after it in a commotion of howls, hoots, and roars, following the dragon’s path.

  Screams rise from the courtyard the moment the dragon breaks through. People scatter across the open space, some taking cover behind carts, others rushing to pull children indoors. A few guards try to form a line, but the sight of the dragon barreling into the sunlight shatters their nerve. Orders are shouted, then swallowed by the noise of the chaos.

  The dragon snaps its jaws open and sprays a wide jet of fire across the courtyard. The blast catches a cart piled high with hay. It goes up instantly — a violent whoosh of flame that sends embers spiraling into the air. The heat rolls across the stone in a hard wave. People scream and scatter. A few guards try to drag the burning cart away from the buildings, but the flames climb too fast, forcing them back.

  The dragon’s wings flare wide. It kicks off the ground, claws scraping stone as it launches upward. The freed animals scatter beneath it.

  I drag the Queen through the doorway, keeping her close as we move along the courtyard’s edge. A cluster of guards turns toward us, weapons half?raised.

  I lift my blade to her throat.

  Feeling the heat of the sword, she doesn’t hesitate. “Stand down!” she shouts. “All of you — stand down!”

  Their stances break, yet their eyes remain locked on me as I release Charlie and Grizz, who are happy to finally be at my side again.

  Next, it is time to round up my party; it is time to get out of here.

  Shouts rise from the far side of the courtyard. Shineah and several Direfangs round the corner at a run. They skid to a stop the moment they see me — the Queen’s arm locked in my grip, my blade raised, the guards giving me space, swords drawn, watching my every move despite the chaos of the animals running amuck in the background.

  Garrun skids to a stop the moment he sees me. His whole body goes rigid.

  “Tormack!” he shouts, voice cracking. “HAVE YOU UTTERLY LOST IT?!”

  He takes a step toward me, hands curling into fists. The look on his face is a raw mix of fury and fear — the kind that comes from watching a friend do something that could get the whole tribe killed.

  His outburst hangs in the air for a heartbeat when Shineah pushes past him, breath catching as she takes in the sight of me.

  “Tormack…” Her voice is thin, almost breaking. “What are you doing?”

  She looks from the Queen to my blade to the burning cart behind us, as if trying to force the pieces into a shape that makes sense.

  “This isn’t you,” she says, shaking her head. “It can’t be. This has to be the Master’s poison. It has to be.”

  My eyes tighten at those words.

  I shove the Queen forward. “You don’t understand. This IS the Master.” My voice carries across the stone. “She had the Direfang wolves in a dungeon under the castle. She was torturing them. Corrupting them. They’re free now.”

  As the Queen tries to pull away, I grab the dark crystal hanging from her neck, ignite it in my hand, and crush it against the ground. The shards crunch and hiss against the stone in a plume of smoke.

  I turn to Garrun. “Round the wolves. Keep them close. The guards might start attacking them.”

  He doesn’t argue. He bolts.

  I look to Varrik next. “Get supplies. We’re leaving!”

  He nods once and disappears into the smoke and shouting.

  Then I face Shineah again. “Where is your mother?”

  Shineah swallows. “She’s still inside. Talking with the King.”

  I don’t waste another breath.

  I drag the Queen with me, Charlie and Grizz falling in at my sides. Their eyes fixed on anyone who even thinks about stepping in our way. The guards part instinctively, unsure whether to stop me or stay out of my reach.

  My boot slams into the throneroom doors, the impact echoing through the hall as they burst open. Gasps ripple across the chamber. The King stands mid?conversation with Shineah’s mother, both of them turning toward the commotion with matching expressions of shock.

  I haul the Queen forward into the room, blade still at her throat. Every eye locks on us.

  The Queen trips on her dress and hits the floor when I shove her forward. Her palms slap stone. Her breath catches. The room tightens around us — guards shifting, royal attendants freezing, Shineah’s mother stiffens.

  “Here is the Master,” I say.

  The words land hard. No one moves.

  The King steps down from his throne, slow and deliberate. His cape drags behind him. His eyes flick to the Queen, then to me, and something sharp curls at the corner of his mouth.

  “Oh, she is not in this alone,” he says. “I, too, am a Master of Masters.”

  His hand slips into his robes, and he pulls out a dark?veined, heartlike crystal the size of his fist. As he lifts it, black fire erupts — thick and heavy, casting no light at all. The crystal begins to melt in his hand, oozing between his fingers and dripping to the floor like black blood. Each drop hisses as it hits the stone, smoke rising in slow, curling threads that spread across the room. The air bends. The light dims, and a low vibration crawls up my spine.

  Then the fire exhales. Dark vapor spills out, rolling across the floor. It doesn’t drift; it moves with intention, sliding between boots and skirts, curling around ankles as if searching. Then it finds me.

  Shineah is in the doorway now, one hand braced on the doorframe. Her eyes are locked on me.

  The King watches me like he’s already won.

  “Let us see,” he says, “what you truly are.”

  The vapor lifts.

  It rises in a slow coil, then snaps toward me, forcing itself upward, shoving into my lungs. I choke, dropping to one knee, then both.

  The room tilts.

  And then the memories hit.

  The cage.

  The guard’s voice.

  “Typical for an orc.”

  The straw in my hair.

  The look in Garrun’s eyes as he clenches his fists.

  The vapor punches deeper, scraping along nerves already raw. My breath snaps short. My chest seizes. I drop forward, coughing so hard my ribs ache. Black tears spill down my cheeks, hot at first, then cold as they streak along my jaw. Dry heaves wrack through me, violent and empty, like my body is trying to expel something deeper that it can’t reach.

  My stomach knots. My throat burns. My vision pulses at the edges. Every breath feels wrong, like the air itself has turned against me.

  “Tormack!” Shineah’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. She’s suddenly beside me, hands on my shoulders, trying to steady me. Her touch is warm.

  And that’s all the corruption needs. The next memory slams into me — Our room. Just the two of us. My hand reaching for her. Her stepping back.

  Her voice soft, careful, apologetic, and distant. Like she was afraid of giving me hope she didn’t mean.

  The ache hits like a blade under the ribs. “SHINEAH,” I cry out.

  Shineah’s hands tighten on me now, trying to hold me upright.

  And the memory twists.

  Her stepping back becomes her pushing me away. Her carefulness becomes rejection. Her distance becomes disgust.

  The corruption presses harder.

  I flinch, tremble, and shake my head.

  The King’s smile widens, and he steps closer.

  I shove Shineah’s hands off me — not out of anger, but out of pain so sharp it feels like it’s tearing something inside me open.

  “GET AWAY FROM ME!” The words rip out of me, raw and broken, louder than I meant, louder than I knew I could speak in this state.

  Shineah freezes — hurt flashing across her face — then deep hot flames start at my hands and begin crawling up my arms. My breath grows long and heavy, muscles locking tight as the heat surges.

  Shineah’s gasp cuts through the room.

  She reaches for me again, instinct overriding everything — but the heat hits her before her fingers can touch my skin. She flinches hard, pulling her hand back as if she’s touched a forge. Her eyes widen, the color draining from her face. She stares at the fire climbing my arms, then at my eyes, searching for something she can’t find.

  Her mother grabs her by the arm and yanks her back. Shineah doesn’t resist. She doesn’t even blink. Her gaze stays locked on me, breath caught in her throat, shoulders trembling as the fire brightens.

  For the first time, she can’t get close to me.

  For the first time, the fire pushes her away.

  “Tormack, it is the Master’s poison — don’t listen to it — don’t let it control you!”

  Her mother grabs her arm. Pulling her back from the intense heat pouring off of me.

  “Good,” he murmurs. “Submit to your Master.”

  My fingers curl against the stone.

  Shineah’s words echo in my mind, “Not now… Not until the world is safe…” Then something deeper whispers, “NOT EVER!”

  The vapor tries to force itself deeper, but the fire pushes back. A burst of heat blasts from my nose, scattering the vapor in a rippling wave. The tendrils snap back the instant the fire touches them, withering and curling away from my skin.

  My vision clears.

  The memory twists — not the way the corruption wants, but the way it always was. I see the truth.

  A promise.

  A future.

  A life waiting on the other side of this man.

  My spine straightens.

  The vapor recoils.

  I lift my head. My gaze burning right into his soul.

  “You are not my Master, Dark one!”

  The King’s smile dies.

  Shineah’s breath catches.

  The room shifts around us.

  The King’s sword is halfway out of its sheath. His hand trembles. Sweat beads along his brow. The heat reaches him, and his stance falters. He tries to steady himself, jaw tightening, but the blade dips.

  He reaches for the crystal again, fingers closing around the dark, half?melted shape.

  I move.

  My fingers close around the hilt of my sword as I rise, the metal warming instantly under the fire crawling up my arms.

  Across from me, the King lifts his blade. The tip wavers. His stance is wide, but his knees shake under the heat pouring off my skin.

  I take one step.

  He braces.

  Our swords meet in a single strike. The impact rings through the chamber — a sharp, violent clang — and his blade tears from his grip, spinning across the floor until it slams against a pillar.

  He staggers, breath hitching.

  His other hand clutches the dark, dripping crystal. Black liquid runs between his fingers. He squeezes it tighter, desperate.

  I reach out with my free hand.

  My fingers clamp around his wrist. The fire bites instantly. His arm jerks. His knees buckle. The crystal sizzles in his palm, the surface blistering under the heat.

  A shriek rips out of him — raw, high, involuntary.

  I tighten my grip and drag him downward until he collapses to his knees, trembling under the heat spilling across his hand and the melting crystal.

  My flaming sword lowers until the burning edge hovers inches from his face.

  “FORSAKE THE DARKNESS!”

  The flaming blob that was once the dark crystal drops to the floor, hissing as it hits the stone.

  The King’s breath shudders. His eyes flick to the Queen watching from the back of the room — her shaking hands, her face pale, and her eyes wide. She leans toward him like a tether pulled taut.

  The King’s face tightens.

  “I will not.” He says between grit teeth.

  I bring my sword closer to his face until the burning edge fills his vision. He pulls back, shoulders curling inward, heat washing over his face.

  “You can kill me,” he says, voice strained, “but I will not betray the one I will meet on the other side.”

  “Then… you leave me no choice.”

  My blade drives forward.

  HISSSSSSSSSS

  The smell of burning blood floods the air, sharp and metallic. The King’s body jerks once around the sword, then collapses as I pull the blade free. Fire trails from the wound — then flickers, gutters, and dies along my arms. Heat drains from my skin in a single shuddering breath.

  “NOOOO!” The Queen’s scream tears through the hall. She throws herself toward him, skirts dragging, hands reaching for his fallen body.

  I catch her before she reaches him. My grip closes around her arm — no scorch, no burn now — and she twists hard, nails scraping at my wrist as she tries to wrench free. Her breath breaks into ragged sobs, her whole body straining toward the King.

  Shineah flinches at the scream. She freezes where she stands, breath caught in her throat, eyes darting between the Queen’s struggle and the King’s body. The faint glow along my sword reflects in her gaze.

  Her mother pulls her back a pace, scanning the guards.

  A deep rumble vibrates through the floor.

  Charlie steps forward from behind me, massive head lowering, lips peeling back in a low, warning growl. Grizz moves with him, shoulders rolling, claws scraping stone as he plants himself between us and the nearest guards.

  The guards recoil instantly. Shields lift. Formations break. No one dares take a step closer.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say, nodding to our exit

  Shineah nods once — sharp, decisive — and grabs her mother’s hand. They fall in behind me. The Queen stumbles, still reaching back toward her husband as I drag her along. Her gaze locked on his body until the doorway swallows it from sight.

  The moment we clear the threshold of the King’s court, the weight of the castle hits me all at once — too many halls, too many doors, too many places the others could have been driven.

  I stop.

  My grip on the Queen tightens, but my arm trembles. The fire’s gone, and with it the strength that carried me through the throne room. I can feel it slipping — like something inside me is counting down.

  I turn to Charlie and Grizz.

  “Help us find the others.”

  Charlie lifts his head, nostrils flaring. Grizz moves beside him, ears pricking toward the right-hand corridor. They start forward without hesitation, and I take their lead, dragging the Queen with me. She struggles in my grip, twisting hard, but my arm trembles with every step.

  We round a corner and nearly collide with our party.

  Shineah, the wolves, the Direfangs — all gathered in a tight cluster, packs slung over shoulders, supplies half?tied. Relief flashes across their faces when they see us.

  “I hope you got the supplies we need,” I say, breath ragged.

  Varrik lifts a bulging satchel. “Everything we could grab.”

  I haul the Queen in front of me as a shield, my blade pressed to her throat. My arm trembles, but the threat is clear.

  For a heartbeat, no one moves.

  Then a bowstring snaps and an arrow slams into the Queen’s shoulder — taking the arrow that was meant for me. She jerks in my grip, a raw mix of pain and outrage twisting across her face.

  “YOU IDIOTS!” she screams, rounding on them as much as my hold allows. “Do you want me DEAD?! Do you want the kingdom to fall? HOLD YOUR FIRE!”

  The guards freeze. Several blanch. The one who shot drops his bow entirely.

  The Queen’s voice sharpens to a venomous hiss. “No one fires. No one moves. If I die, every one of you will answer for it.”

  The courtyard goes still.

  We move.

  Charlie and Grizz take the front, clearing a path through the courtyard. The wolves flank the children, who are being hurried forward by the adults. The Queen stumbles as I drag her, one hand clamped over the arrow jutting from her shoulder, breath hissing through her teeth.

  We reach the edge of the forest. My legs feel hollow. My grip on the Queen is slipping. Her body feels rigid in my grip, every breath tight around the arrow lodged in her shoulder. I can barely lift my sword, but I force the blade up again, holding it before her.

  I steady my shaking arm. “Forsake the darkness,” I say, breath unsteady, “or meet the fate of your husband.”

  Behind me, the adults react instantly.

  “Don’t look,” Shineah’s mother whispers, pulling the youngest two close.

  “Look away,” another adult murmurs, shielding a child’s face with their hand.

  The kids fight to see anyway — twisting, peeking between fingers, trying to understand what’s happening.

  The Queen spits, eyes burning with contempt even through the pain. “You will not get away with this,” she hisses. “Fendarrow will hunt you down to the day you die.”

  My vision blurs. My arm trembles violently. “FORSAKE THE DARKNESS!” I shout.

  She says nothing. She only stares at me — cold, unyielding, defiant to her final breath.

  With the last strength left in my body, I drive the sword forward.

  The Queen collapses.

  I stand there for a moment, sweat dripping from my forehead. I sway, and the world tilts around me. My knees give out, and I fall beside her as my vision fades to darkness.