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Shadows rose from the grave and surrounded her.

“I love you, dear sister. But I’m not asking.” Her brother swung into his saddle. She held tight to the Scroll in one hand and grabbed Daring’s reins with the other.

“You think you’re so clever, Nore.” Her brother rode up to her; his hands moved like lightning, unlatching his dagger. She yanked hard on Daring’s reins, pulling his nose down sharply, the way he hated. He reared up on his back legs, knocking Ellery’s stallion in the face, and it gave her the seconds she needed. She swung into her saddle and squeezed her knees tight. But her brother’s steed dashed in the way. Daring spurred into motion. She tightened her grip on the Scroll. Ellery rode up beside her. He leaned sideways in the saddle, raised his blade, and drove it downward right into her fist.

“Ah!” The scream tore from her throat. Blinding pain ripped through her limbs. But she tightened her hold on the Scroll. He’d have to cut off her hand to force her to let go. He grabbed the Scroll, pulling it away from her. She held on. He tugged.

It ripped.

She kicked in her heels. Daring rode like the wind as Nore stuffed her bloody piece of the scroll into her dress. She rode hard through the graveyard, meandering. Daring tired, but she didn’t let up. Ell’s horse was faster, but she knew trails her brother didn’t. Rivers of blood ran down her arms, but she dared not look too closely. She had to get far, far away.

A sharp light cut through the sky.

Daring reared up. He whinnied, backing away as the world warmed pink, then purple, the colors fluttering like a midmorning sunset.

Then a black moon appeared.

And the whole world darkened beneath its shadow. Violent matter sloshed under its glossy surface. The face of it was riddled with spider-webbed cracks.

The Sphere.

Before she could move, bursts of shadows appeared in snappy succession. Armies of people. She saw sigils and House colors, and her heart froze in her chest.

Everyone had their eye on the Sphere.

Part Four

Fifty-Five

Jordan

The Sphere hangs in the air, bobbing above the ground like an angry storm, splintered with endless cracks. It’s a wonder it has held up this long. My grip on Quell tightens. The world is silent; these buried mountains are suffocated by a blanket of snow. But everyone here can probably hear my thudding heart. We may have held back a dozen of Beaulah’s Draguns, but two dozen more are sprawled out across the graveyard. Behind us, the angular, architectural wonder that is Dlaminaugh is eerily silent, as if the entire House of Ambrose is sitting behind their stone-and-glass walls, watching. The last time I visited here, I was a boy, traveling with my father. But seeing this place, feeling its mysterious aura, even from a great distance, is impossible to forget.

“Relocate,” I mutter.

“It won’t yet. Not until it’s been attacked,” my brother says. “And if strong enough magic is lassoed to it, it won’t be able to move, even then. That’s how I cracked it.”

My heart thuds when I see Quell listening. I look for some indication that she’s let this idea go. That after last night she’s learned that I do trust her. I could never see her as a monster. But her plan is reckless. She knows nothing of the innards, magical composition, the fickle way it reacts with oxygen. A million things could go wrong. I only want her to see reason. I consider reaching for her, but her expression is ironclad.

“Wait here under the trees, please,” I say to her. “It’s far enough away, with plenty of cover. It should be fairly safe.” But she pulls away from me, her expression darkening, before I can finish.

“I’m sorry.” She grabs my necklace and tugs. Time and motion seem out of balance as the chain snaps. Our late-night talks, the way we slept tangled up together, the way it felt to tell her the things I haven’t told anyone rush through my mind like some kind of fever dream. Before I can form words, she dashes off down the hillside toward the Sphere. And it feels like a part of me goes with her.

“Jordan,” the Dragunhead says, and his voice spins me around. He’s running toward me. “You’re here. I’m so glad you’re here.” He jabs a thumb backward. “Ambrose won’t come out. I’ve asked and Isla will not come to the gate to speak with me. Whatever happens here, we are on our own.” His gaze falls to my chest. “Where is your pendant?”

“Quell.” A rush of heat surges through me, and I clench my fists. “But Beaulah…”

He grabs me by the shoulders. “Where did the girl go?” He looks past me to the impending doom, and something shades his expression. Beaulah’s forces move, surrounding the Sphere. It’s happening. I look for Quell but don’t see her.

“We have to let Beaulah get far enough in her plan to implicate herself. She is going to shatter the Sphere.” My heart thuds. I swallow.

“And so is Quell, it seems,” the Dragunhead says.

My chin hits my chest. How do I hide her intentions? How do I protect her now? But she’s out in the open, defying everything we’d planned. He responds, but I don’t hear a word he’s saying once I realize I don’t see my brother.

The Dragunhead shakes me. “You take care of Beaulah; I’ll apprehend the girl.”

Just past him, in the distance, Quell skirts past Duncan’s forces, going around their perimeter, which is clever since everyone’s attention is on the Sphere. I should have seen this coming. Word spread our world is fracturing, and every rat from the corners of the Order has come to make their claim on it. I look for House of Oralia, but there is no sign of them. I watch the other Houses. No one moves—like they’re at some kind of standoff. Marionne has dozens in plain clothes. It appears Darragh just grabbed as many members from her House as she could.