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I just want to be free.

Soon, Maia. I promise, you will be free soon.

“Line up the pieces,” Isak said, straightening his shoulders, responsibility like a weight pushing him into the mud, rain sluicing his face, sticking his hair to his cheeks.

“This will definitely save them?” Evrille asked, her blue eyes intense as she held up her section of sword between his and Zamanya’s. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll find a creative way to make you impotent, Isak Sintali.”

He winced.

“I won’t get creative,” Zamanya added with a sharp grin. “I’ll just cut your balls off.”

“I am not an unruly dog, thank you very much,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes fixed on the silver sword, the red gems in the handle, the fabric wound around the hilt. This is what it all came down to, the one thing that would push back that wave of encroaching red, that would save what remained of the Saintlands. It would save his family. Isak would finally, after a lifetime of being alone, havea family.“It’ll save them,” he said with confidence, reaching through the darkness, the poison, for the place where Viskae lived within him.

She spoke in calm, rasping instructions that he repeated to the warrior and the healer, and their expressions turned tense with effort as they summoned magic. Had they ever used this power before, or like Isak had they shied from it, run from it? He wasn’t running now. Not just the saint of mistakes, he reminded himself. He was also the saint of redemption.

“Fuck!” Evrille laughed, and magic flared in her hand where she gripped the sword, butter-yellow and hopeful as it lined the metal. Isak’s own power was a rich, shimmering bronze. Zamanya clenched her jaw, a muscle feathering in her cheek, and then blinding, shimmering red power streaked along the edges of the sword’s tip.

“I don’t know how long I can hold onto it,” she admitted.

“Just hold the sword together,” Isak urged, making sure his piece met Evrille’s. His heart jumped when he watched the two magics merge, forming a light of purest gold.

Stop!A sharp, female voice roared in his mind, but Isak gritted his teeth and ignored it. It was too late to stop now, they were so damn close to having a weapon that could kill saints, that could save his family, and he wasn’t going to stop even for a powerful voice cutting through his mind. If it was Viskae, he would have listened, but this voice belonged to a stranger.

When Zamanya perfectly lined up her fragment of Sintrylla with Evrille’s, the light flared orange, magic blending and harmonising.

“This is supposed to happen right?” Evrille demanded, her face paler as the light flared, colours shifting, changing into something new. Something strong enough to heal a sword that had been broken for a millennium.

It’s working,Viskae breathed, almost breathing down his neck, her excitement and relief palpable. She’d never explained her history with the dark ones but Isak knew she was afraid of them. It was right there in the things she didn’t say, the stories she skipped over with vagaries and no detail.Keep going, the metal is fusing.

And it was. The magic was all one solid colour now, a gold so pale it was the sweet hue of wine.

“Keep going,” Isak urged them. “It’s almost complete.”

“I really don’t like this,” Arna muttered, and Isak was vaguely aware of Harth and the king consort being grabbed, their guards moving them back from the box and the healing sword. Isak’s breath caught when Sintrylla pulled free of their hands, forged into a single piece again, floating in the air. He didn’t dare pull his hands away, hovering beneath the sword as magic poured from him, instinctual and strong. He’d shied from his power, hadn’t wanted to unlock so much magic with the darknesschurning inside him. Combining the two hadn’t seemed like a good idea. But he was overflowing with magic now, with the saint power Viskae had passed down to him, and it felt good.

Redemption, he reminded himself, his eyes on Sintrylla. Redemption and family.

The pale gold light erupted all at once, yanking magic from Isak—and from the others judging by their groans of surprise and discomfort. It hurt, but it was nothing compared to getting tortured by an enforcer, so Isak allowed the pain to flow through him. This would save Jaro, save Maia, save all the others. A ready-made family waiting to accept him, like Evrille and Zamanya had accepted him.

It’s done,Viskae breathed with a hiccup of laughter.You really did it. You healed the sword.

Don’t sound so surprised,he grouched, looking around as pale light hung over everything like a veil, softening the hills, the grass, the ruins of a once-great city.

Zamanya removed her hands first, sitting back with a grunt, and then Evrille. Sintrylla dropped into Isak’s waiting hand, solid and heavy and a beacon of hope. That was what the light hovering around them signified: hope. A way to finally defeat the saints, to end the darkness, to burn it from the Saintlands altogether. Even if it meant burning the darkness from himself, he would do it.I want to be free.So did he.

“That was easy,” Evrille said with a disbelieving smile, fingers fretting the end of her dark braid.

I was supposed to be easy, you fools!A shrieking, female voice filled Isak’s head, making him hunch over. His fingers clenched around the sword, his other hand flying up to cover his ear like he could block out the sound.

Who the fuck is that?He demanded of Viskae.

An ancient one,she breathed with something Isak didn’t want to label as unease. Mostly because if something scared asaint, it would be likely to murder, torture, or enslave him.But all the ancient ones are sleeping…

You were deceived,that furious female voice snarled, inhuman and loud, and cries went up from behind him, too. Harth and his father, Rassicus and Arna. Zamanya and Evrille swore, too.

The rebel army didn’t react, but that wasn’t a guarantee they didn’t hear the seething voice ofan ancient one.Whatever the fuck that meant.

You were led here by trickery and lies. You think you’ll defeat the dark ones with this sword? By forging it, you’ve handed them true, absolute power.