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Tears try to pry their way from my eyes but I have none left to cry. The Draguns don’t relent. Clouds of magic close around me so thickly, even the snow appears blackened. Toushana moves through me, comforting me as it twists around my bones like a hug. I pull at it harder, wishing it could numb the hollow ache where my heart used to live. I don’t move. I’m waiting to be destroyed when something hits me right in the stomach. I narrowly catch it.

A ball of dark swirling mist.

I drop the bomb but it explodes, and it feels like a fire erupting in my hands. The force of it punches me in the chest. I stumble back, lose my footing, and trip. I blink, and somehow the world is still there. I wait for the sting of wounds or debilitating pain. But nothing happens. I pull myself up on my feet, my body colder all over. Beaulah’s Draguns watch me, gaping, before hurling more magic.

Everywhere is death.

Everywhere is darkness.

And somehow I am existing despite it all.

The silver blade.

An ice storm stirs beneath my skin as I remember the small amount of toushana saving my life. A smile curls my lips.

The darkness can’t hurt me.

Because I am the darkness.

I defy every lie about toushana they’ve built.

I am their villain, their scapegoat, the mask to their own monstrosity. Because without people like me, there would be no one to blame for the Order’s horror but themselves.

The Draguns tire. And I am wholly intact. They cease their assault, backing away, as if they’ve had the same revelation.

“What are you doing?!” Beaulah snatches Yani by the arm. “I did not say retreat!” She looks around. “Charlie?”

The Dragunhead turns in to himself, cloaking and disappearing.

I glare at Beaulah. Then the Sphere. There is still one way I can avenge my mother. Toushana recoils in me with a vengeance. I hold my magic in, like I did at Hartsboro, letting it build up. When I release, I’m going to shatter the Sphere.

Fifty-Seven

Jordan

I writhe on the frozen ground, trying to make sense of the world. Graves are still all around me, and I hear faint commotion in the distance. I’m still on Ambrose grounds. A fir tree that looks older than the Order blurs into the sky above me.

“Quell?” The word comes out cracked. I struggle to turn, but moving makes my body feel like it has split in two. Is she alright? I try to lift myself but collapse, and the last moments I remember come back in a rush. The Dragunhead set me up. He sent me to Beaulah without backup, knowing she’d try to kill me when I tried to stop her. He wanted me out of the way. Even if that meant dead.

The throbbing ache in my chest is still wet and warm around the base of the dagger. The blade isn’t pushed in too deeply because, when I felt what was happening, I shoved away. Still, it feels like there’s a log in the center of my chest, and every time I shift, it turns into a razor.

I hold breath in my chest and try once more to hoist myself up, to get a better idea of where I’ve been taken. Upright, with my back against a headstone, I can see more clearly. The stone walls of Dlaminaugh tower over me, no more than a few hundred paces away. I peer around for my brother. I could have sworn he grabbed me. But there’s no one. I feel my pockets for any elixirs I might have on hand. Something for pain, or healing cuts, anything that could help. But I find nothing. I am going to die here. Alone.

I picture Quell’s face. I want her to be the last thing I see. Tears come. I don’t fight them.

Every person in the Order I gave my loyalty to has let me down. Beaulah. Darragh. Now the Dragunhead. My chin hits my chest.

I did everything right.

And the Order stabbed me in the back.

I rest my head back, letting myself feel whatever this chaos is. As I replay the past several weeks in my mind, a prick of something unfamiliar blooms inside. Parts of me that have been riddled with holes my entire life feel like they’re finally filling in.

And then I close my eyes and let myself relive the final moments of the raid on the Unmarked house. The child we found had seen magic. I swallow, remembering, still able to feel the chill that rose on my arms when I told my men to clear the perimeter.

As I approached the small bed, my foot nudged the child’s stuffed bear—like the one Yags used to drag everywhere. I stood in that little bedroom and drew the cold to myself. Shadows thrashed in one hand, and I held the bear in the other. Recitations ran through my head of protocols and drills, expectations. I could hardly breathe. But as I watched their little chest rise and fall, the rules didn’t matter.

I laid the bear beside the child.