Page 64

“It’s done,” I gasp, pushing myself to my feet. “You’re free of him.”

Dayn rises slowly, his movements uncharacteristically stiff. “Half done,” he corrects, his voice rough. “I’m free of him, but not yet of Heathborne itself.”

34

The runes on my wrist pulse urgently, responding to the ambient energy still swirling through the chamber.The convergence lights haven’t settled—they continue to rotate, though more slowly now, as if waiting.

“The second unbinding,” Dayn says, approaching me with measured steps. “Are you ready?”

I nod, though truthfully I have no idea what to expect. The first ritual nearly drained me completely, and I can still feel Dayn’s blood coursing through my system, altering my perceptions in subtle ways.

“This one will be... more difficult,” he warns, stopping before me. “The binding to Heathborne is more fundamental than my connection to Mazrov. It’s woven into the very fabric of this place.”

“What do we need to do?” I ask, straightening my shoulders despite my exhaustion.

“The same components, but used differently.” Dayn gestures to the ritual items, which have transformed duringthe first unbinding. The elder blood has become a crystalline powder, the convergence water now a viscous gel, the darkblood ash reconstituted into a small obsidian dagger.

He picks up the dagger, turning it over in his hands. The blade’s edge seems impossibly sharp.

“The binding was created with sacrifice,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. “The unbinding requires the same.”

My stomach drops. “Meaning?”

“Not death,” he clarifies. “A different kind of sacrifice. Willing surrender.”

Before I can ask what he means, Dayn takes my hand, turning it palm-up. The runes on my wrist pulse in response, matching the rhythm of the convergence lights. His eyes meet mine, amber depths now swirling with gold.

“Your darkblood essence is the key,” he says. “Not your death—your power. Freely given.”

I swallow hard. “And what does that mean for me?”

“It means I need you to surrender a portion of your darkblood abilities—temporarily—to break the final binding.”

The obsidian dagger gleams in his other hand, its edge catching the swirling lights. My instincts scream caution, but something deeper—perhaps influenced by his blood still flowing through me—urges trust.

“How?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

Dayn guides me back to the altar where Mazrov’s body still lies. “Stand across from me,” he instructs, positioning himself at Mazrov’s head. I take my place at his feet, the convergence lights spinning between us.

“Place your hands on the altar,” Dayn says, laying his own palms flat on the stone surface. As I comply, the runes on my wrist flare with sudden heat, spreading up my arm in intricatepatterns I’ve never seen before. They mirror those beneath Dayn’s skin, creating a visual resonance between us.

“The convergence point beneath Heathborne is a nexus of power,” Dayn reminds me, his voice taking on that formal cadence again. “Seven ley lines meeting at a single point—a rare phenomenon that the founders exploited to bind me here. To break that binding, we must disrupt the convergence temporarily.”

He lifts the obsidian dagger, its blade catching the swirling lights. “This will not harm you permanently,” he assures me, though his tone suggests discomfort. “But it will... extract a portion of your essence.”

“And I’m just supposed to trust you on that?” I ask, eyebrow raised despite my racing heart.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “After everything we’ve been through, I’d hope for at least a modicum of trust.”

“Hope springs eternal,” I mutter, but I don’t withdraw my hands.

Dayn begins the incantation, different from the first—this language is sharper, more angular, with sounds that seem to cut the air itself. The convergence lights respond immediately, their rotation accelerating as they contract into a tighter spiral.

With a swift, precise movement, Dayn draws the obsidian dagger across his palm, dark blood welling immediately. He extends his bleeding hand to me, expectation clear in his eyes.

I hesitate only briefly before taking the dagger and mirroring his action, slicing my own palm open with a quick, practiced motion. The pain is sharp but familiar—blood magic often requires such sacrifices.

“Join your hand with mine,” Dayn instructs, holding his bleeding palm above Mazrov’s chest.