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I swallow hard and force my mind to focus despite the dizzying effects of Dayn’s blood still coursing through my veins. He moves with methodical precision, arranging the collected items in a specific pattern around Mazrov’s unconscious form.

“Stand here,” Dayn directs, pointing to a spot directly opposite him across the altar.

I take my position, watching as he uncorks the vial of moonfire flower essence. The iridescent liquid catches the light from the convergence streams, fracturing it into prismatic patterns across the stone walls.

“Your hands,” he says, extending his own across Mazrov’s body.

I hesitate before placing my palms against his. His skin burns against mine, the contact sending another jolt of awareness through my system. The wound on my neck throbs in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of our exchange.

“The ritual has three phases,” Dayn explains, his voice taking on a formal cadence I haven’t heard before. “Severance, dissolution, and release. We must complete all three before the convergence lights shift.”

“And if we don’t?”

His eyes meet mine, deadly serious. “Let’s focus on succeeding.”

Without further preamble, Dayn begins to chant in a language I don’t recognize—guttural and fluid, with syllables that seem to fold back on themselves in impossible ways. The runes beneath his skin pulse brighter with each word, and I feel answering vibrations from the marks on my wrist.

The air in the chamber grows heavy, pressing against my skin like a physical weight. The convergence streams begin to undulate, their colors intensifying until they’re almost painful to look at directly.

“Now,” Dayn says between phrases of the incantation, “pour the moonfire essence over the relic.”

I release his hands and reach for the vial, my movements steady despite the power building in the room.

The liquid seems alive as I pour it over the Relic of Severance, flowing not downward but inward, absorbed completely by the ancient object.

The relic begins to glow from within, pulsing in rhythm with Dayn’s chanting.

“Sprinkle the ash,” he directs, never breaking the flow of his incantation. “Around him.”

I sprinkle the darkblood ash in a circle around Mazrov’s form. Each particle seems to hover momentarily before settling, as if reluctant to complete its journey. As the circle closes, the ash ignites—not with normal fire, but with dark flames that cast no light and consume nothing.

The elder blood comes next, its crystal vial warm to the touch. Following Dayn’s direction, I uncork it and pour a thin stream across Mazrov’s chest, watching as it seeps into his body, disappearing as if absorbed through skin.

Dayn’s chanting grows louder, the unknown language seeming to twist the air itself as the convergence streams respond, coiling toward us like sentient beings. The room trembles, dust raining from the ancient ceiling as power builds to a crescendo.

“The water,” Dayn commands, his voice strained with effort. “Now!”

I grasp the sealed flask of convergence water, breaking the wax seal with my thumb.

The moment the seal breaks, the water inside begins to glow, shifting through colors that match the streams surrounding us.

I pour it in a spiral pattern over Mazrov, starting at his feet and working upward toward his head.

The water doesn’t pool or drip but hovers above him, forming a perfect mirror of the spiral I’ve traced. With the final drop placed at his forehead, Dayn slams his palm down onto the Relic of Severance and the entire pattern ignites.

Light explodes outward, temporarily blinding me.

When my vision clears, I see Mazrov’s body levitating above the altar.

His back is arched unnaturally, his arms and legs splayed as if suspended by invisible strings.

The runes that had been hidden beneath Dayn’s skin now appear on Mazrov’s exposed flesh, burning through his clothes, mapping identical patterns across his torso.

Dayn continues chanting, but now his words seem to cause him physical pain.

Sweat beads on his forehead, and his hands shake where they grip the altar’s edge.

Blood—his blood, that strange dark liquid shot through with gold—begins to seep from runes in his arms, tracking down his skin in glistening rivulets.

“Phase one complete,” he gasps between words. “Severance initiated.”

The runes on Mazrov’s body pulse once, twice, then begin to detach—literally peeling away from his skin like living things, floating in the air between him and Dayn.

With each separation, Mazrov’s body jerks violently, and Dayn’s face contorts in what appears to be equal measures of pain and relief.

“The dissolution,” Dayn manages, his voice strained. “Your turn.”

My heart hammers against my ribs as I step forward.

I have no idea what I’m supposed to do, but some instinct—perhaps guided by the dragon blood still coursing through my system—directs my movements.

I place my hands on either side of Mazrov’s head, feeling a strange buzzing sensation where my skin meets his.

Words form on my tongue—words I don’t recognize but somehow know. A darkblood incantation, ancient and powerful, rising from somewhere deep within me. The language flows from my lips as if I’ve spoken it all my life, though I couldn’t translate a single phrase.

As I speak, the floating runes begin to dissolve, their golden light fragmenting into countless motes that swirl around us like a storm of fireflies. Mazrov’s body relaxes incrementally with each dissolved rune, his features softening from their rictus of pain.

The final rune—the largest, positioned over Mazrov’s heart—resists the dissolution. It pulses defiantly, sending out waves of energy that clash with the convergence lights .

“It’s fighting back,” I gasp between words of the incantation. The strain of channeling this much power threatens to overwhelm me.

“Don’t stop,” Dayn commands, his voice ragged. He places his hands over mine, his skin burning like a brand. “Complete the phrase.”

The last words of the incantation tear from my throat, raw and powerful. The stubborn rune fractures with a sound like shattering glass, golden fragments spinning outward before dissolving into the swirling maelstrom of light.

Mazrov’s body convulses once, violently, then goes completely limp. The golden connection between him and Dayn snaps with an audible crack, and Dayn staggers back as if physically struck. For a moment, he looks almost diminished—less substantial somehow, his features drawn with pain and exhaustion.

“Phase two complete,” he rasps, bracing himself against the altar. “Dissolution achieved.”

But there’s no time to rest. The convergence lights grow more agitated, the colors bleeding into each other as they spin faster around the chamber. The air thrums with potential energy, the stone walls vibrating with it.

“The final phase,” Dayn says, straightening with visible effort. “Release.”

He moves to stand beside me, his arm brushing mine as we face the altar together. Without being told, I know we must speak in unison now. The words rise between us, his voice twining with mine as we recite the final incantation.

Power builds with each syllable, the convergence lights responding to our joined voices.

They coalesce around us, through us, binding us momentarily in a cocoon of pure magical energy.

I feel Dayn’s presence brush against mine, memories overlapping, emotions bleeding across boundaries that should be impenetrable.

I see Heathborne as it was when first built, the stones fresh-cut and gleaming.

I see the ritual that bound Dayn to this place—seven darkbloods arranged in a circle, their lives extinguished one by one as mages in clearblood robes chanted.

I feel his rage, his helplessness, his decades of patient planning.

And I know he sees my memories too—my training at Darkbirch, my fear when Jax was injured, my grandmother’s lessons, the constant vigilance that has shaped my life.

The final words of the incantation hang in the air between us, vibrating with potential.

Together, we reach for the Relic of Severance, our hands closing around it simultaneously.

The metal burns in our grip, growing hotter with each passing second until it’s nearly unbearable.

The relic melts between our fingers, transforming into liquid light that flows up our arms, tracing intricate patterns across our skin before sinking beneath the surface.

A shockwave of energy explodes outward, throwing us both backward. I slam into the wall, the breath knocked from my lungs. Through swimming vision, I see Dayn similarly sprawled across the chamber, his face contorted in a grimace.

The convergence lights whirl in a frenzy, spinning faster and faster until they blur into a solid ring of prismatic energy. The ring contracts, focusing on Mazrov’s lifeless form before suddenly expanding outward in a blinding flash.

When my vision clears, Mazrov’s body remains on the altar, but something fundamental has changed.

The oppressive weight of Dayn’s connection to him has vanished, the threads that once bound them together now completely severed.

The air feels lighter somehow, charged with potential rather than constraint.

“It’s done,” I gasp, pushing myself to my feet. “You’re free of him.”

Dayn rises slowly, his movements uncharacteristically stiff. “Half done,” he corrects, his voice rough. “I’m free of him, but not yet of Heathborne itself.”