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The sun overhead dimmed. The grass browned, then shriveled, dying and becoming part of the void.

Midian stepped back and looked down. He turned his head this way and that, watching as the grass receded. Panic flowed through the connection between us, and for a moment I felt something toward him I never expected to feel.

Pity.

He jerked his head up. “Savor it,” he said. “It’s the last emotion you’ll ever feel.”

I held my arms away from my sides. “Go ahead. Try to force me out so you can steal my body.”

“I will,” he promised. “Avenor couldn’t stop me from taking him over. You think you have a chance?”

“He kept a demon within him for too long. He was weakened.” I braced myself for Midian to enter me, but he didn’t. He stayed back, and I got the impression the flames in his eye sockets peered at me. He was afraid.

The sky dimmed, the blue sliding into gray. “I’m not afraid. You’re Avenor’s descendant. You’ll try to trick me like he did.”

“No tricks,” I said. “You’ve seen my mind.” I stared into the flames that danced in his face. “I’m your only chance. You have nowhere else to go.”

The flames flared higher. He dropped his crude form, becoming a seething black shadow of malice and rage. It poised in the air, seething and twisting around itself. Then it shot forward and slammed into my chest.

He filled me. Flooded my mind and immediately took over, shoving me out of the way. In my head, he spun around. In the Middling, my body spun, too, whirling as he took in the fading remnants of the things I’d made. Without me, the Shade couldn’t sustain them.

“I don’t need you,” he growled. He closed my eyes and slammed into me, shoving me hard and almost knocking me from my body. If he succeeded, I’d never get back in again.

He reached for the Making. As he felt its power, satisfaction swelled in my chest. He could make anything. He could make a whole new world.

“You can’t,” I told him, speaking in our shared mind because I couldn’t control my voice. He’d stolen it.

He growled and slammed into me again.

I hung on, clinging by fingertips I no longer possessed in a mind I no longer controlled. Sharing my body with him was like wading neck-deep through water fully clothed. Everything was a fight. Every movement an effort.

In my head, he wheeled around and slammed into me again. The Middling slid across my vision, nothingness descending before sliding back. I couldn’t take much more. He was simply too strong. But I had to keep trying. This was a fight I couldn’t afford to lose.

“You’ve already lost,” he said. “The Making is mine. Avenor was a fool to give it up, and Fate an even bigger fool to give it to you.”

“Maybe,” I conceded, “but Fate gave me other gifts. Like fire in my hand.” I felt Avenor’s sword fill my palm.

Midian tried to open my hand but couldn’t.

“Those who read closely enough,” I told him, “know the sword of the Kings of Eldenvalla didn’t always stay in its scabbard. It appears for those who need it…and I guess it stays there until the need passes.”

Panic flared. In my head, I got a split second warning before Midian jerked away—

“RICTI.”

—and froze inside my head. My control flooded back. I lifted the sword.

“What game is this?” he demanded, his panic rising. “What are you doing?”

I turned the sword around and placed the tip against my stomach. A tear streaked down my cheek as I said, “You forgot something important, Midian. I’m part demon. That makes me a liar.”

I thrust the sword into my gut.

Fiery pain.

Nothing like Lega’s bly’ad. She’d given me another gift and I hadn’t even realized it. Death wasn’t a stranger. I’d already died under her lips. I had nothing to fear.

I sank to my knees. Warmth spread down my front, flowing from my stomach to my thighs. My lungs rattled. I leaned forward and braced a palm in the dying grass.