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Mila crouched next, bending low behind the bushels of poppies and lilies.

Her hands trembled as she braced them on the ground. I sank down to a crouch in my own scorched ring. I couldn’t get any closer, but I tracked that slight quaking, the most rattled I’d seen her. Other than when she chastised me for fleeing the battle, I supposed. She’d been unsettled then. This was deeper. It almost felt like something personal that I shouldn’t watch.

But I couldn’t look away.

Not as her head hung forward and she took a breath.

Not as her lips moved slowly, whispering something to the land. Some confession meant only for the Angels. Something she’d held within her for Damien knew how long.

When she was done, she didn’t rise immediately. She took a long silent moment to collect herself. The only sound was the mounting hum of the earth. Finally, eyes shining, she stood and faced me.

I didn’t know what she said, but it was clear it had taken a toll on her. I hated that. But I hated more that I could do nothing about her being trapped there with that pain.

The ground’s buzzing intensified, warmth melting into the air like lava. It called me. This final sacrifice.

“When you’re ready, Malakai,” Gatrielle encouraged.

A promise of service. My hand curved around my ax.

For a moment, I wished I’d brought Lucidius’s dagger. The one I’d carried unexpectedly since he’d died. Polished it, wielded it. But a piece of me was hesitant at even the consideration of letting it go.

Those twisted parts inside me needed that one thing until I had all of my answers regarding that man’s lies. I was glad I’d left it behind.

I tugged the Engrossian ax from my belt.

This...this would be a sacrifice. I’d hated the weapons, couldn’t face them after my imprisonment, and had now claimed one as my own. I’d conquered the fear of it against my skin.

Giving it up now would be a loss, but okay.

Still, even with that peaceful acceptance, I wanted one last swing at the Angels who caused this.

So, I pulled my arm back behind my head and let it fly.

The ax soared toward the stone statue, end-over-blade. The sharpened corner shouldn’t have stuck, but it found a crevice in the deteriorating rock and lodged itself there with a ring of metal against stone, handle swinging.

“A weapon,” I panted. “A symbol of the service we commit to as warriors.”

A weight lifted from my shoulders, a release of my self-imposed punishment.

Ptholenix’s flaming wings burned brighter. The buzzing swarmed through the ground.

Then, in one breath, the fire was extinguished.

The tattoo on the Angel’s back glowed. Inked gold vines inflated, protruding from the surface. Crawling across his stone skin, they descended his body until they formed a tangled nest in the dirt like writhing, shimmering snakes.

The scorched rings in the ground disappeared, and we crept forward.

“What happens now?” Mila asked.

Those vines unwound their mess, something nestled in the center catching the light.

“I don’t know,” Gatrielle hedged. “The sacrifices are all we’re sure of.”

Peeling back one by one, the serpentine vines retreated to their stone house, like ligaments of a sentient beast. Where they’d been, a small gold item winked up at us.

I crouched and brushed my fingers across it. We waited for the earth to riot or the statue to crumble, but nothing happened.

When I picked the warm metal up, my chest pounded again.