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It was the armour he wore that sent a chill down Maia’s spine—it was formed of metal, not leather, and his chest was covered in a hundred overlapping scales like a dragon’s hide or a fish’s body. And blood already stained the edges. Was that blood from the last time he’d been in the Saintlands? From the prison realmthey’d all been trapped inside? Or was this new blood? Had he just killed someone?

Who?

Maia’s head spun as she searched the hallway, counting her mates, only settling when they were all here. She shouldn’t have turned away.

Azrail caught Jaro and Kheir in a rush of darkness and came at her so quickly she didn’t sense the threat. Cold hands closed around her throat, icy points of Az’s fingers pressing into her skin. Too cold. Why was he so cold? She hissed, using her good hand to grasp his wrist, staring into flat blue eyes.

“Az,” she rasped, grunting when his hand tightened. Behind him, Bryon and Ark snarled at once but Maia couldn’t look away from Azrail. “Fight it. You can fight it.” She threw herself through the glade of her soul toward his, cringing at the black, oozing poison. She needed her magic, that strength and pure, cleansing power, but black spots closed into her vision and when she reached for her magic, it struggled to respond.Azrail,she shouted at him.Az, fight this. You can fight this.

His eyes didn’t ripple with even a hint of emotion. He was too far gone, too far—

Grey, gauzy light burst through the palace, making Azrail’s skin even more wan, his eyes a shade lighter. Maia struggled for air, struggled to hold onto his soul even as the light flared brighter, like the vivid glow of the moon, like starlight. It felt … cold. Colder than any light had a right to be. It felt like Azrail’s soul when she wrapped herself around him.

A cheer went up from, jubilant and loud. One female voice and two male.

The saints… were cheering?

CHAPTER FIFTY

The box was exactly where the book said it would be, at the bloody site of the battle for Wylnarren. The ground was still stained red here. There were still fragments of bombs and swords and makeshift weapons.

Isak’s hands shook as he reached for it, dirt staining his palms.

“Let’s not be so hasty,” Harth said, catching Isak’s wrist. “We don’t know what shields were left on it.”

“I don’t feel any,” Isak responded, a tremor moving through him as he stared at the carved golden box in front of where he knelt. It was bigger than he’d pictured, large enough to fit a skeleton.

There are no bones here,Viskae said, and then added after a pause,None in the box at least. The city is full of them.Isak was trying not to think about how many people had been killed here, and trying to ignore the paranoid voice in the back of his mind that said he’d be next.

They had the box. Inside was a sword capable of killing saints. They’d done the impossible, found the impossible, and it was over. They’d almost won.

Harth leaned closer to see the carvings all over the box, dirt crusted into the engravings like it was in the creases and folds of Isak’s hands. The prince’s sudden hiss made Isak jump.

“I don’t know what that metal is, but I’m not touching it.”

“I don’t like the feel of it either,” Zamanya said with a deep frown. She was still holding her sword, and now glaring at the box like it had personally offended her mother. “Ev?”

“It makes my skin crawl,” Evrille admitted, giving Isak a look. “You don’t feel it?”

He shrugged. “Must be a fae thing. Maybe it’s iron.”

“Goldiron,” Kaladeir Nysavion said with a sudden graveness that sent a shiver down Isak’s spine. Maia’s darling father still hadn’t changed his stance on the saints not being real, but the box made him wary at least.

Goldiron?Viskae hissed.It is forbidden. It is never to be used.

Would you like to share with the class?Isak drawled, keeping his hands away from the box but giving it a prod with the end of his walking stick.

Iron is poison to a fae. Gold iron is created by piercing fae with iron over and over, hammering studs of it into their bones, and then melting those fae to forge a new metal. It’s made with the bones of the dead.

Isak shied away from the box now, just in time to hear Kaladeir give a similar explanation to the others.

“It was hidden, buried in history,” he hissed, “so no one could ever make it again.”

“This has been here a long time,” Isak murmured, hovering his hand over the despicable metal, testing for wards. No warnings went off in his head—or his darkness—so he reached into the hole they’d dug and pulled it out, setting it safely away from the fae.

“Careful,” the prince consort snapped.

Isak scoffed, giving him a dirty look. Even after hours of searching Wylnarren they hadn’t exactly bonded. But they’d managed to not murder each other so that was a win.