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The ancient blade of Iona rose, still edged in Domacridhan’s blood. It leveled at Andry’s head, the point narrowed to a lethal gleam.

“Kneel, Mortal,” she commanded.

Andry only stood straighter, pulling Corayne away from the danger.

“Never,” he said, backing away, crushing roses under his feet. He moved surely, his steps carrying him over to where Charlie lay.

To his relief, Andry spotted the slow rise and fall of the priest’s chest.

For all her disdain, Isibel made a very mortal gesture, and rolled her gray eyes.

“Very well,” she sighed.

Lightning fast, the immortal moved, throwing Corayne to the ground and taking Andry by the neck in the same motion, turning his body, forcing him to kneel beneath her. Her hand dug into his throat, her grip bruising. Then her blade raised against his skin. It happened so quickly, Andry barely knew it, realizing his doom long after he felt the cold bite of steel at his throat.

He braced himself for the slash of Isibel’s sword through his neck.

But Isibel held him there, suspended between life and death, the blade perilously close.

“Kneel,” she said again, her voice ragged in his ear.

On the ground, Corayne turned onto her back, pushing up on her elbows. Tears tracked down her dirty face. Andry wanted so badly to wipe them away, to feel her cheek against the palm of his hand. To hold her a little bit longer, until they were parted forever.

“Andry,” Corayne bit out, not daring to move another inch. “Andry, I’m sorry.”

He held her stare.If she is the last thing I see, then so be it.

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” he whispered back, meaning every word.

“Yet,” Isibel said behind him, the sword still against his throat. “Corayne an-Amarat, do what you were meant for.”

One side of the Elder’s mouth lifted in a cruel excuse for a smile.

“Or watch him die.”

On the ground, Corayne choked back another sob. Around her, theroses continued to open, taunting in their scarlet bloom. Shakily, she moved to stand. The Spindleblade remained against her back, the jewels of it winking.

“I will not,” she said, though her voice quivered.

“Run, Corayne,” Domacridhan sputtered, still slumped against Sorasa. Her hands still pressed against his wound. “You must run.”

“Foolish counsel from a foolish soul,” Isibel said, her hold on Andry tightening. He swallowed carefully, his skin bobbing just below the deadly steel. “Blood the sword, Corayne. And succumb to your fate.”

“Don’t,” Andry said carefully, keenly aware of the cliff he stood upon. And what lay below.

So they stood, in terrible balance, one side against the other. But any semblance of a chance was just an illusion. Isibel could force Corayne to open the Spindle. She could kill them all where they stood to give the sword to Taristan, and everyone knew it. This was only torture, plain and simple.

Corayne shifted her gaze, her black eyes downcast. Another tear worked its way down her face. To his horror, her arm rose, a hand angling for the sheath at her back.

“Don’t,” he said again, softer this time.

The ring of a drawn sword drowned him out, the Spindleblade loosing with a flash of torchlight and roses. At the hilt, the amethysts and rubies glowed.

In the center of the courtyard, at the heart of the blooming flowers, something else glowed too. Thin, near invisible, little more than a thread of impossible gold.

Behind him, Isibel sighed out a low breath of satisfaction.

Corayne curled with pain, heartbreak written all over her face.