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“Thirty seconds,” Camellia says, bored.

My heart hammers in my chest as Pranmore slips up the side of the dais, each step drawing him closer and closer to the mad princess. So enthralled with the idea of Clover’s demise, Camellia has forgotten about the elf.

A dangerous mistake.

Lawrence grabs his throat, writhing at Camellia’s feet. She’s released him from his paralysis, but the invisible hand of her magic clenches around his heart.

“Ten seconds,” Camellia says. “You best make a decision.”

“Henrik!” Clover cries frantically, creating the distraction Pranmore needs.

“No!” Bartholomew yells.

“Five seconds.” Camellia leans forward. “Four. Three. Two—”

The princess’s words are cut off when she lets out a bloodcurdling shriek.

Camellia struggles against Pranmore. His hands grasp her neck from behind, initiating the contact he needs. Magic circles the room, heavy and disorienting.

“Clover!” I yell, reaching for her and grabbing Bartholomew by the shoulder as well.

Clover clings to me, her hands digging into my arms. None of us were prepared for the onslaught of the warring magic. Unnatural black clouds form at the ceiling, and lightning crackles in the air. Pranmore and Camellia are illuminated as life and death fight for dominion.

Magic envelops Pranmore, glowing gold and spreading.

“What’s happening?” Clover yells.

“I don’t know,” I answer, but my words are lost in the clash.

There’s nothing for us to do but weather the storm.

The light grows, lengthening the elf,transforminghim. He wraps himself around Camellia, his life magic stretching and growing. Bright green leaves bud on his antlers as they expand, becoming a living canopy in the room.

Camellia screams, her dark powers slowly smothered by Pranmore’s magic as he grows around her, trapping her within this new form.

“Pranmore!” Bartholomew yells, trying to break away from us.

But I hold him tightly, yanking him back. “Don’t interfere, or we might lose you too.”

“What’s he done?” Bartholomew cries, his eyes wild.

With one last scream, Camellia disappears between the twining bark of the massive tree, her dark magic defeated. A deafening explosion of light emits from the dais, sending us flying. We crash against the back wall. Around us, the castle trembles. I pull Clover and Bartholomew to me, trying to shield them with my body. The overhead skylights shatter, the glass falling around us like deadly rain.

And then all goes still.

We look up cautiously and find the last of Pranmore’s magic drifting to the floor like golden snow. It’s a quiet victory, a joyful end.

But I feel as if someone knocked the air from my lungs. I stagger forward, releasing Clover and Bartholomew.

My squire stumbles to his feet and circles the tree.“Pranmore!”

“Henrik,” Clover breathes, her body trembling. “Where is he?”

“PRANMORE!” Bartholomew yells, falling to his knees when his search is unsuccessful.

“Where is he, Henrik?” Clover demands again, her fingers closing around my wrist.

The broken glass on the floor glitters like jewels in the sunrise. I stare up at the tree, watching as the first rays of the new dawn shine through the thick, spring-green foliage. “He’s there.”