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CHAPTER FIFTY

T he box was exactly where the book said it would be, at the bloody site of the battle for Wylnarren. The ground was still stained red here. There were still fragments of bombs and swords and makeshift weapons.

Isak’s hands shook as he reached for it, dirt staining his palms.

“Let’s not be so hasty,” Harth said, catching Isak’s wrist. “We don’t know what shields were left on it.”

“I don’t feel any,” Isak responded, a tremor moving through him as he stared at the carved golden box in front of where he knelt. It was bigger than he’d pictured, large enough to fit a skeleton.

There are no bones here, Viskae said, and then added after a pause, None in the box at least. The city is full of them. Isak was trying not to think about how many people had been killed here, and trying to ignore the paranoid voice in the back of his mind that said he’d be next.

They had the box. Inside was a sword capable of killing saints. They’d done the impossible, found the impossible, and it was over. They’d almost won.

Harth leaned closer to see the carvings all over the box, dirt crusted into the engravings like it was in the creases and folds of Isak’s hands. The prince’s sudden hiss made Isak jump.

“I don’t know what that metal is, but I’m not touching it.”

“I don’t like the feel of it either,” Zamanya said with a deep frown. She was still holding her sword, and now glaring at the box like it had personally offended her mother. “Ev?”

“It makes my skin crawl,” Evrille admitted, giving Isak a look. “You don’t feel it?”

He shrugged. “Must be a fae thing. Maybe it’s iron.”

“Goldiron,” Kaladeir Nysavion said with a sudden graveness that sent a shiver down Isak’s spine. Maia’s darling father still hadn’t changed his stance on the saints not being real, but the box made him wary at least.

Goldiron? Viskae hissed. It is forbidden. It is never to be used.

Would you like to share with the class? Isak drawled, keeping his hands away from the box but giving it a prod with the end of his walking stick.

Iron is poison to a fae. Gold iron is created by piercing fae with iron over and over, hammering studs of it into their bones, and then melting those fae to forge a new metal. It’s made with the bones of the dead.

Isak shied away from the box now, just in time to hear Kaladeir give a similar explanation to the others.

“It was hidden, buried in history,” he hissed, “so no one could ever make it again.”

“This has been here a long time,” Isak murmured, hovering his hand over the despicable metal, testing for wards. No warnings went off in his head—or his darkness—so he reached into the hole they’d dug and pulled it out, setting it safely away from the fae.

“Careful,” the prince consort snapped.

Isak scoffed, giving him a dirty look. Even after hours of searching Wylnarren they hadn’t exactly bonded. But they’d managed to not murder each other so that was a win.

“The sword is inside here?” Rassicus asked, his face a little paler than it was a minute ago, the guard leaning over Isak’s shoulder to look. Isak and Rassicus, on the other hand, had become quick buddies. Because of that Isak didn’t elbow him in the gut to get him out of his personal space.

“Yes.”

“And then we have to fix it with our magic,” Evrille added, warily eyeing the box. “What if it’s made of the same goldiron stuff?”

“It isn’t,” Isak said, parroting Viskae’s words inside his head.

I remember it when it was wielded, she added. It was never gold.

That didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t now, but they’d soon find out. The sky was a bleak grey, clouds threatening to drop rain on them; Isak hoped it wasn’t an omen.

“Here goes nothing,” he murmured, and prised the lid from the box, exposing a carved, elaborate interior with three pieces of a broken sword sitting inside—the tip, the jagged-edged middle, and the silver hilt, wrapped in a frayed red fabric with matching rivers of red gemstones following the contours of the cross-guard and pommel.

“So this is Sintrylla,” Isak murmured, reaching for the handle of the sword and ignoring the exasperated tsk Arna gave him. The seasoned warrior seemed to think he was a dumbass.

You are, Viskae pointed out.

Well, yeah, but she doesn’t have to roll her eyes so much.

You’re eye-roll worthy.

Can we focus on the world-saving sword, please?

Do you really think it will work? She asked with breathless hope. Isak went a little cold.

You’re the saint. You dragged me halfway across the world to find this. You tell me if it’ll work.

It’s important. You said so—the dark ones want it. And I was pulled all this way, to this very moment. It’s pivotal. The whole of our fate rests on this moment.

You could say it pivots on it.

Now is not the time for jokes, she huffed, as if she hadn’t been teasing him just moments ago.

“Isak,” Evrille said, jerking him back to reality and out of his mind. “It’s safe to touch?”

“Seems it,” he agreed, lifting the fragment of the sword out of the box. He thought of Jaro striding into the circle, thought of Maia fighting like a wild cat, thought of her bleak, hopeless voice in his dream.

I just want to be free.

It was worth trekking across the world, worth dangerous passages through Venhaus and the treacherous journey across the Silver Sea, worth being hauled to Harth for breaking into the Nysavion Hold. It was worth every minute of every day reminding him of nightmares he’d prefer to outrun. Dark, bloody liquid shoved down his throat, skin cut from his body to let the poison soak deeper, his bones and muscle and skin torn and shattered and damaged beyond repair.

He’d have died without the darkness, without the vicious creature that lurked within him now. Ironically, a product of that torture. And it was worth all that just to be here, kneeling in the mud as the clouds unburdened themselves of rain, holding part of an ancient sword.

Zamanya waited a moment, presumably for his head to explode or for a dark spirit to possess him, and when neither happened she picked up the wicked tip of the sword, holding it delicately as she peered at the quote etched down the fuller. “Careful,” she warned when Evrille reached for the middle piece of the shattered sword.

“Now what?” Evrille asked, holding it carefully in her hand, the edges still razor sharp after centuries buried in a box in the ground.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Arna said, edging closer and giving the box—and the sword—a shifty look. “It’s making my skin crawl, and not just because of the iron. Millicyn women have always had a preternatural sense.”

She received four blank looks—Isak, Zamanya, Evrille, and the dick consort. “That’s my name,” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest and managing to look even more physically intimidating. Isak was very glad they were allies; she was firmly in the snap-him-like-a-twig camp. “Arna Millicyn. We can sense things.”

“It’s a sword as old as dirt in a box that’s made out of foul metal and fae bones,” Zamanya pointed out with a scowl. “I’d be surprised if you had positive, fluffy feelings about it.”

“Maybe we should listen to her,” Rassicus said with a frown, shifting until he knelt beside Isak. “This feels… big.”

It did. Isak knew exactly what he meant but— “My brother and mate and their friends are suffering every minute we hesitate, every second we kneel here in the dirt deliberating. This is the only way to save them.”

“Repair the sword, save my daughter, and then we’ll deal with any consequences,” Kaladeir said with a graveness that almost made Isak think he had a conscience. When he glanced to the king consort, he found him watching Harth. Right, Maia’s brother would probably deck their dad if he told them to walk away now. He could get right in line, being Isak.

I just want to be free.

Soon, Maia. I promise, you will be free soon.

“Line up the pieces,” Isak said, straightening his shoulders, responsibility like a weight pushing him into the mud, rain sluicing his face, sticking his hair to his cheeks.

“This will definitely save them?” Evrille asked, her blue eyes intense as she held up her section of sword between his and Zamanya’s. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll find a creative way to make you impotent, Isak Sintali.”

He winced.

“I won’t get creative,” Zamanya added with a sharp grin. “I’ll just cut your balls off.”

“I am not an unruly dog, thank you very much,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes fixed on the silver sword, the red gems in the handle, the fabric wound around the hilt. This is what it all came down to, the one thing that would push back that wave of encroaching red, that would save what remained of the Saintlands. It would save his family. Isak would finally, after a lifetime of being alone, have a family. “It’ll save them,” he said with confidence, reaching through the darkness, the poison, for the place where Viskae lived within him.

She spoke in calm, rasping instructions that he repeated to the warrior and the healer, and their expressions turned tense with effort as they summoned magic. Had they ever used this power before, or like Isak had they shied from it, run from it? He wasn’t running now. Not just the saint of mistakes, he reminded himself. He was also the saint of redemption.

“Fuck!” Evrille laughed, and magic flared in her hand where she gripped the sword, butter-yellow and hopeful as it lined the metal. Isak’s own power was a rich, shimmering bronze. Zamanya clenched her jaw, a muscle feathering in her cheek, and then blinding, shimmering red power streaked along the edges of the sword’s tip.

“I don’t know how long I can hold onto it,” she admitted.

“Just hold the sword together,” Isak urged, making sure his piece met Evrille’s. His heart jumped when he watched the two magics merge, forming a light of purest gold.

Stop! A sharp, female voice roared in his mind, but Isak gritted his teeth and ignored it. It was too late to stop now, they were so damn close to having a weapon that could kill saints, that could save his family, and he wasn’t going to stop even for a powerful voice cutting through his mind. If it was Viskae, he would have listened, but this voice belonged to a stranger.

When Zamanya perfectly lined up her fragment of Sintrylla with Evrille’s, the light flared orange, magic blending and harmonising.

“This is supposed to happen right?” Evrille demanded, her face paler as the light flared, colours shifting, changing into something new. Something strong enough to heal a sword that had been broken for a millennium.

It’s working, Viskae breathed, almost breathing down his neck, her excitement and relief palpable. She’d never explained her history with the dark ones but Isak knew she was afraid of them. It was right there in the things she didn’t say, the stories she skipped over with vagaries and no detail. Keep going, the metal is fusing.

And it was. The magic was all one solid colour now, a gold so pale it was the sweet hue of wine.

“Keep going,” Isak urged them. “It’s almost complete.”

“I really don’t like this,” Arna muttered, and Isak was vaguely aware of Harth and the king consort being grabbed, their guards moving them back from the box and the healing sword. Isak’s breath caught when Sintrylla pulled free of their hands, forged into a single piece again, floating in the air. He didn’t dare pull his hands away, hovering beneath the sword as magic poured from him, instinctual and strong. He’d shied from his power, hadn’t wanted to unlock so much magic with the darkness churning inside him. Combining the two hadn’t seemed like a good idea. But he was overflowing with magic now, with the saint power Viskae had passed down to him, and it felt good.

Redemption, he reminded himself, his eyes on Sintrylla. Redemption and family.

The pale gold light erupted all at once, yanking magic from Isak—and from the others judging by their groans of surprise and discomfort. It hurt, but it was nothing compared to getting tortured by an enforcer, so Isak allowed the pain to flow through him. This would save Jaro, save Maia, save all the others. A ready-made family waiting to accept him, like Evrille and Zamanya had accepted him.

It’s done, Viskae breathed with a hiccup of laughter. You really did it. You healed the sword.

Don’t sound so surprised, he grouched, looking around as pale light hung over everything like a veil, softening the hills, the grass, the ruins of a once-great city.

Zamanya removed her hands first, sitting back with a grunt, and then Evrille. Sintrylla dropped into Isak’s waiting hand, solid and heavy and a beacon of hope. That was what the light hovering around them signified: hope. A way to finally defeat the saints, to end the darkness, to burn it from the Saintlands altogether. Even if it meant burning the darkness from himself, he would do it. I want to be free. So did he.

“That was easy,” Evrille said with a disbelieving smile, fingers fretting the end of her dark braid.

I was supposed to be easy, you fools! A shrieking, female voice filled Isak’s head, making him hunch over. His fingers clenched around the sword, his other hand flying up to cover his ear like he could block out the sound.

Who the fuck is that? He demanded of Viskae.

An ancient one, she breathed with something Isak didn’t want to label as unease. Mostly because if something scared a saint, it would be likely to murder, torture, or enslave him. But all the ancient ones are sleeping…

You were deceived, that furious female voice snarled, inhuman and loud, and cries went up from behind him, too. Harth and his father, Rassicus and Arna. Zamanya and Evrille swore, too.

The rebel army didn’t react, but that wasn’t a guarantee they didn’t hear the seething voice of an ancient one. Whatever the fuck that meant.

You were led here by trickery and lies. You think you’ll defeat the dark ones with this sword? By forging it, you’ve handed them true, absolute power.

No… Viskae breathed, going still inside Isak. He responded by freezing, too. That couldn’t be true. No, I was drawn to this, the sword will save us—

Can you trust the ones who sent you here? The female shrieked. In full confidence.

“A book sent us here,” Isak muttered.

“No,” Harth said, staggering back to Isak’s side to stare at the empty gold box, the sword. “It didn’t. Tynenn did. But he’s been a librarian in Saintsgarde for years. Since I was a kid.”

“Since I was, too,” Kaladeir said warily, joining them.

“I told you,” Arna spat, even angrier than before.

Books were rewritten, the ancient one snarled. Stories were retold. One great trick by the dark ones and their followers. The sword was left as a trap, a tool. One that would reopen the circle upon its repair.

“The circle,” Isak echoed, cold inside now, the sword less like hope in his hands and more like a harbinger. That gauzy light still hung over everything. A curse. An omen. “But they don’t have them all yet—”

It’s the work of hours to shatter them, the ancient one shrieked, and this time Isak swore he heard that cry in the distance, like she was racing towards them. Hours, and civilization as we know it will fall.

“What can we do?” Kaladeir demanded, stoic and serious again, utterly unaffected by Isak’s colossal fuck up. The saint of mistakes, incarnate.

I’m so sorry, Viskae whispered. I didn’t know.

It would be easy to be angry at her. Isak was just tired.

Warn those who live near the remaining stone circles. Gather your armies to defend them. Prevent the dark ones from gaining control over them at all costs.

Kaladeir stepped away, speaking to himself. He’d stopped arguing the saints weren’t real, Isak saw. Hearing ancient voices would do that to you.

The bastard has psychic magic, Viskae said with a laugh. He can speak into any mind, across any distance. He’s warning the commanders of the Sainsan army, and calling others to ride to the other countries.

It could work. If they were fast enough, if they could surround the circles, if Isak ignored all his memories of saints and monsters and how quickly they could shred mortal soldiers. It could work.

“And what happens if we fail?” Rassicus asked nervously, shifting his weight.

The end.

Isak dragged a hand through his hair, shaking his head hard. “Like you said, dick consort, we’ll deal with the consequences later. Now we need to save the others. Can this sword still kill a saint?” he asked the ancient one.

“King consort,” Harth growled.

“I said what I said.” Isak grabbed his stick from the mud, clasped the sword tightly in his hand, and stood. “We need to make use of this sword while we still can.”

He didn’t mention that he didn’t know where Jaro and Maia were being kept, or that he’d been hoping this sword would lead him to them like a miracle.

I will take you to them, the ancient one snarled, and this time Isak was certain he heard a shriek outside his mind too, like a primal, guttural scream.

The rebel army began to shout and point, and Isak followed their attention to the heavy clouds, to the grey sky, to—

“No fucking way,” Isak blurted.

You might have told me the ancient ones were drakes, he blurted to Viskae. That’s an important detail to leave out.

A drake. An enormous horned, spiked, scale-armoured, many-fanged, fire-breathing drake screamed as it—she—whipped through the air and landed in the ruins of Wylnarren only metres away.

Well? she demanded. What are you standing around like useless lemmings for? Climb on.