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Hope

T he sky above her was cloudless, tinged with blues and oranges and yellows.

The memory of the Core Cardinal’s voice thundered in Hope’s mind, the sound of the wind deafening as her body plummeted down, down, down.

You may die five times, Hope Nevada. You may rise from each death stronger than before, or you may not rise at all.

“Ciaran,” she screamed. A beg, a prayer, and a plea.

Every time she blinked, he was farther; she was farther.

Every time she blinked, she was closer to death.

Something shone above her, the rising sun reflecting twice. Something long and sharp she knew all too well. Her daggers were diving down towards her, the tips aimed at her.

Ciaran’s roar had the strength to stop time, to stop worlds, but in this world, it stopped nothing.

She tried closing her hands to Take the daggers away, she tried Giving herself a shield. Her magic was not answering, which could only mean one thing: a Cardinal wanted this to happen.

Perhaps there was no going back. Perhaps this was it.

Then, Ciaran jumped. He jumped from the peak of the navia, his wild, enraged shadows covering him as his upright body fell. The shadows surged from his arms, from his legs, undulating trails pivoting towards the deck.

He was darkness incarnate, dressed in power and shadows.

She felt his shadows wrap around her body, protecting her from the fall. A reckless attempt at saving her life. Desperation made shadows.

Ciaran fell fast, in a controlled way—but not fast enough.

Hope’s body hit the deck, the impact cushioned from the life-saving protection Ciaran had granted her. Her body ached, paralyzed, but not dead. Perhaps this was not it, after all.

But when her daggers shone above her chest and her throat, the tips of the sharp, polished blades ready to hit home, she knew it was too late.

The last thing she heard was his scream.

The last thing she saw was him .