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Useless. He’d never felt so useless.

‘I hate you.’He’d use the memory like a weapon—would cut himself with it a little more each time, until he found the strength to get the hell out of here, Loren safe in his arms again. Even if shedidhate him, even if she wanted nothing to do with him, even if she wanted to break up with him, for the gods’ sake…he refused to rest until he knew she was safe.

He lifted the sword of adamant with his good hand and studied the reflection in the blade. The once black material had transformed into a mirror shortly after the explosion, its mysterious power allowing him to see through the darkness that blinded the naked eye. If he looked over his shoulder, he saw nothing but thick, choking darkness. But if he looked into the blade, he could see everything, clearer than crystal, in its reflection. Every last detail, right down to the pebbles on the ground. He hadn’t a clue how, but it wasn’t the first time the sword had changed itself in a time of need.

A miracle, that’s what it was. Amiracle—and the sole reason he and Roman had managed to make it more than three feet without tripping, staggering into walls, or falling prey to the beasts hunting in their vicinity.

‘I hate you.’The vultures were circling again, and with them came another unwelcome reminder.

Ten months. Loren Calla, the sweetest, most beautiful woman who’d ever walked into the ashes of his life, would die sometime in the next roughly ten months. Darien had known for a while, but had buried it down, deep in the graveyard of the rest of the shit he suppressed, for as long as he could stand it. Now that the cat was out of the bag, it was all he could think about.

Ten.Fucking.Months.

Fuck if he was going to justlether die. He still had time, however short—a chance to save her before that bullshit prophecy came to fruition.

He drew a deep breath, the cold air of the Void sawing apart his lungs like jagged shards of glass as he walked with Roman through the tunnels, forever looking into the blade to help him navigate.

After the explosion, the temperature had plunged below freezing, puddles crackling as they iced over in the dark. Shortly after the cold had arrived, the monsters had as well, slinking out of the Dead Realm and into the living. Now, they were everywhere—horrid creatures of every shape, size, and breed.

Darien watched one in the sword—a thickly muscled canine with milky eyes, its form rippling with lightless green flames—as it crept by, entirely unaware of them thanks to the coat of magic Roman kept in place, masking their scents and sounds. It was a handy trick, but Darien knew Roman couldn’t keep it up forever. They were both faint with exhaustion, their limbs stiff and slow-moving in the cold.

And it was getting harder to breathe by the minute.

Darien studied his cousin’s grimy, scratched-up face in the sword’s reflection. He mirrored Darien’s steps, each inhale shallow and quivering.

“You all right?” Darien whispered, ice breaking under his boot as he took another backward step. That was the sword’s one flaw: Needing to use the reflection to see meant they had totravel backward. If they wanted to walk forward, they first had to make damn sure they wouldn’t bump into anything before trying, which would be plain stupid while surrounded by this many ravenous beasts.

“Been better,” Roman admitted, matching Darien’s volume. “I feel like I can’t breathe.” He rubbed at the chest of his battle-suit, another inhale shaking through him. “I need a paper bag or something.”

“It’s not you, it’s the Void—it can’t support life,” Darien explained. “And it’s only going to get worse, so we need to hurry.”

At first, he’d believed the lack of oxygen was the fault of the debris choking the ventilation passages, and while that was true to an extent, Spirit Terra was a place of death. And death was spreading, seeping into Yveswich like a poisonous gas, poised to kill everything it touched.

Darien figured they were getting close to where he’d slew the Basilisk. They’d decided to head to the cavern the moment the blade had modified itself, giving them a way to see in the gloom. Climbing out of the same chamber they’d rappelled down would take a long time, and might very well be impossible given its extreme height. But right now it was their only option.

On they walked, maneuvering around rubble and stalagmites. Bandit stayed alert in Darien’s shadow, Sayagul doing the same in Roman’s. The Familiars had been very quiet since the bomb went off, but Darien suspected they were speaking to each other in private.

As if sensing his curiosity, Bandit said down the Spirit Bond, ‘I hate to admit it, but…I’m worried about her.’A whimper drifted down the bond.‘Do you think…do you think she’s okay?’

Darien drew a deep breath, cold air needling his throat. Merely the thought of her not being okay caused him unbearable agony. But he told the dog, who waited for an answer onpins and needles,‘I’m sure she’s fine.’He took a moment to appreciate his own lie. ‘And I’m sure she’s far away by now.’

Bandit accepted the lie without argument, which was for the best. Darien didn’t have the heart to tell the dog what he really thought.

Because he didn’t want to admit it to himself, either—that there was no chance in hell they’d still be alive if Loren hadn’t done something to tip the odds of survival in their favor. He and Roman were far too close to the Well replica to have lived through the blast. Not only should they have died—instantly—but the tunnels also should’ve collapsed.Instantly.

She had stayed in Yveswich—Darien could feel it. Had stayed long enough to suffer that awful blast. Which could only mean one thing.

Malakai had broken his promise. He’d given Darien his word that he would get Loren out of the city, and if he hadn’t followed through…

Darien’s blood heated to a rolling boil, but he clung to the hope—the chance, however slim—that the Reaper had at least been smart enough to get her out of hereafter.

If she hadn’t made it out of the city, if she was stuck somewhere in this blinding darkness, if she had suffered so much as a scratch…

Darien would lose his goddamn mind. No amount of fighting or killing would quell the rage he’d feel if he discovered she was hurt.

Stagnant air, thick with rot and blood, wafted down the tunnel.

“What is that?” Roman whispered.