Page 72

What I’m Destined to Do

S omeone screams. It takes a few sparks before I realize it’s me.

Fax dives clear, but Kathraanis, Ibwa, and the others are engulfed in a surge of topaz-blue fire. The heat and cold rush toward me, even from this distance, searing my arms, stinging my cheeks, burning my calves and the soles of my feet.

Would I survive this fire?

It doesn’t look like an ordinary flame. Through the blaze, I glimpse shards of ice, clumps of hail, and delicate frost.

How? They should be melting.

The star elves cry out.

They shriek, scream, collapse to the ground with arms raised and mouths wide open. I scream with them until I clamp my fingers over my lips, forcing myself to be quiet. I can’t draw attention.

My eyes are locked on the scene. My body refuses to move. Numb. Frozen. Powerless. I want to help them, but I don’t know how. And I’m too far away.

Their robes disintegrate. Skin scorches and sloughs off. Their hair ignites and vanishes into smoke. My gaze flicks to Netharu’el.

He stands there. Still. Watching. He doesn’t stop it. Isn’t he the one… controlling this?

It’s time. I must act.

I throw myself to my feet and sprint across the mountain. Charging. Rushing. Blindly. Straight for Netharu’el. I duck beneath the dragon’s heavy tail, leap over a claw, and roll under another.

It takes me thirty sparks to reach him, and when I do, I launch myself at him and grab him by the arm.

He jolts. His gaze is glossy, glassy.

The dragon closes her mouth, smoke curling from her wide nostrils as cold as polar winds. Netharu’el turns to me, his eyes growing brighter with each passing spark.

“What in all of Saxx are you doing?” I tug at his arm, frantic. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

He doesn’t respond right away. I glance to the right. The elves lie scattered on the ground. Still. Blackened. Dead.

Ibwa. Dead. Kathraanis. Dead.

She held all the answers, and now I’ll never know if she served Akares.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” Netharu’el asks, his voice calm, his eyes steady and serious as they meet mine.

“I know you can speak to dragons and likely to other creatures.”

“Correct.”

My heart stutters. We’re alike.

I let go of him, trying to read the expression in his eyes.

There’s only one thing it could mean. Guilt.

“It was you… You told the dragon to attack, didn’t you?”

“Correct again.”

I step back, even though it brings me closer to the dragon. “You lied to me. You never stopped serving him.”

He offers a lazy smile. “That’s where you’re mistaken, love.”

“Then tell me. What aren’t you saying?”

He moves slowly around me, the dragon’s wingtip brushing through his fingers. Thoughtful. Controlled. He looks up, silent for a moment, then brings his gaze back to mine.

“There’s far more you don’t know about me than you think, Iszaelda.”

I fold my arms tightly across my chest. “Then tell me. I’m listening.”

He stops and places a warm hand against my cheek. I pull away.

I don’t want him touching me, not until he’s said what he needs to say.

“I’d rather show you,” he says.

And then it happens. From one spark to the next, his clothes ripple and shift. They transform into an elegant, soot-black ensemble, with silver armor pieces covering his forearms, torso, and shoulders.

They could almost pass for decoration. They fit so seamlessly.

So effortlessly.

It’s not just his clothes that change. His hair turns white as rime drifts loose behind him in the wind.

His body stretches, and he becomes leaner and taller.

His lips narrow into a pale line as two faint scars etch across his cheek, running parallel down the side of his face. And his eyes.

They shift shape, longer, narrower, and sharper. Cunning.

No longer glossy and black but pale as salt crystals. Even his lashes and brows have turned white, cold and colorless. Then come the horns.

They grow thicker and heavier, arching back over his skull in a sweeping curve, like the horns of a massive ram.

The skin around them swells, splits, and begins to bleed.

Akares reaches for me. His hands clamp around my upper arms.

I scream and tear myself free, stumbling back, pressing my palm to my mouth.

It’s him.

I don’t understand. I can’t understand. He looks so much like Netharu’el. I can see it now; his features are still there. He’s buried beneath, trapped.

But he’s Akares.

Akares Dorne. Mesmigli Dgejl. ’Ksnaka. Ijemsael. The Black One.

The Dark One. The Vile. Whatever name he wears. It’s him.

It’s him!

“Of course it’s me,” he snaps, his voice nothing like Netharu’el’s.

Because this isn’t Netharu’el. This elf is cold. Cruel. Terrifying.

You hate him, Iszaelda. You must kill him.

No! I can’t. It’s Netharu’el.

“Ak… Akares?”

I stare like an idiot. Like a true uvani’eth. I know I should raise my sword and act. Fast. But I can’t.

He’s made my mind go blank. I don’t know what I want to do.

I don’t know anything.

“Indeed.”

“How?”

His lips curve into that crooked smile again, precisely like Netharu’el’s. It’s heartbreaking. It makes my whole body want to collapse into his arms and, at the same time, drive Voenriel straight through his chest. I don’t know which feeling is stronger.

He flicks his hair back, and it falls in smooth waves down his spine. His fingers trail along the dragon’s wing once more. My eyes follow every movement, unable to look away.

“How?” I repeat.

“It’s not all that complicated,” he says, inspecting his nails. “Let’s say I have access to… an entire depot of abilities. Reshaping my form is just one of my many talents.” He looks up again.

“Why? Why pretend to be someone else?”

“To gather information.”

“About?” I snap, taking another step back toward the dragon.

“The Resistance. And it worked better than I expected. Now I know everything I need to know.”

“They didn’t trust you.”

“I had control over certain items, my dear. Things that I watched with. A golden bowl, for example, and a?—”

“Vaast’s ring?”

“Ah.” He nods deeply. “You noticed. Yes. Vaast’s ring.”

“He got it from Kathraanis. Not from you.”

“And who gave it to Kathraanis?”

“You mean?—”

“Precisely.” He smiles.

“She never worked for Akares… for you?”

“Of course not.”

“You made it all up?”

“Made up what?”

I throw my arms out.

“All of it. That you were being hunted. That you were hiding.”

“Correct.”

“That’s it? Just ‘correct?’ No explanation?”

“I couldn’t have told you the truth, my dear.”

“You should never have been here at all! It doesn’t add up.”

“What doesn’t add up?”

“The letter.”

“What letter?”

“The one in your drawer!”

“Ah.” He looks pleased with himself, almost smug. His eyes gleam.

“What do you mean, ‘ah’?”

“I saw that you’d stolen it, and it wasn’t hard to figure out where you’d hidden it. Perhaps you should consider a more discreet hiding place. I swapped out the page the next day.”

“You swapped it out?”

“Clever, isn’t it? I wrote it myself. Don’t look so surprised. It was a forgery. Though I’m impressed you managed to decipher it. Who helped you?”

“So Netharu’el was made up?”

“Of course. For the most part. But the name isn’t a lie. That’s my middle name. Akares Netharu’el Dorne of Nazat’Ar.”

At first, I was mostly in shock. I just wanted to understand how it all fits together and how any of it could be possible. But now, with the answers laid bare, the emotions begin to stir. They rise, sharp and hot, burning in my chest. I clench my fists. Dig my nails into my palms.

My brows draw low as I lock my gaze on Akares from a distance, taking in that sickeningly elegant form.

He’s fiery attractive.

Even the first time we met, I saw it. I was struck by how he moved and the noble cut of his features. But back then, I ignored it.

I couldn’t even admit it to myself. Now I know—it doesn’t matter.

He’s the same elf as before. The same lying, vile star elf.

The one who wiped out the wind elves. The one who eradicated the sea elves.

The one who forced my family to flee Insisriel.

The one who burned Parae to the ground. The one who killed my family.

The one who captured my sister. The one who deceived me.

The one who made me fall for my greatest enemy. He’s the one I hate .

“That was a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“You can hear my thoughts?”

“From time to time. When I choose to.”

“Excuse me?”

“Now and then, I allow myself the pleasure. But right now? I don’t need to. You’re screaming them at me.”

“Good. Then you know how I feel.”

I tighten my grip on Voenriel’s hilt, ready.

“You fell for me?”

“The fact that that’s what you choose to focus on says more than?—”

Rushing footsteps cut me off. I look up. Acranta bursts from the tree line. Acranta. She’s alive. Is she going to attack Akares?

She sprints toward us, sword aimed like a spear, eyes burning, strides swift as arrows.

Akares turns slowly and draws both of his shard blades.

They’re broad, each half the length of a longsword, resting easily in his hands. He spins them over and over, fluid, practiced. Controlled. Precise. As if he’s done it a thousand times before.

The dragon tenses beside him. Shifts its weight. It lowers its head, preparing to strike.

Acranta is skilled. I know that. More than skilled. One of the best.

But she’s no match for Akares. No one is.

Before they collide, I throw myself between them, my arms wide, using my body as a barrier. Acranta slams into me.

The impact crashes through my ribs, knocks the breath from my lungs, and sends me stumbling backward, gasping.

“Move, Zel!” she snarls, eyes wild. “Get out of the way!”

“Acranta, no,” I hiss into her ear. “He’ll kill you. You don’t know what he?—”

“Yes, do move,” Akares murmurs behind my back, voice brushing the skin at the base of my neck.

I whirl around, every hair on my body standing on end. “Never! Don’t you dare touch her.” I step back, pulling Acranta with me, making sure there are several elf-lengths between us and the Scourge.

We need to get away from both him and the dragon.

Akares smiles widely. Too widely.

“You never cease to surprise me, Iszaelda. I didn’t think you’d defend anyone but your beloved sister.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

“Naturally. I wrongly assumed you were like me and that you only cared about yourself and no one else.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

“No, you’re not.” He balances the pommels of his swords between his fingers, thoughtful. “But now you need to step aside. Or else?—”

“What?”

“I’ll be forced to kill you.” He looks into my eyes. His gaze is empty. Emotionless. As if he feels nothing at all.

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

“Oh, come on, Zel!” Acranta shouts behind me. I tighten my grip around her wrist. “I can take him. I know I can, I?—”

“Run!”

More are coming now. Fax and Salahfar. Kes’raa and Zondan.

Baalvon and Vaast. Saatra and Rahveles. Apprentices and masters.

Spectators whose names I don’t know. Cleaners, builders, cooks, gardeners.

And then the dragon moves. She raises her head high into the sky and lets out a roar of pure madness. It echoes and shatters the air. All I hear is the deafening sound of death.

Akares stands motionless, his gaze vacant and lifeless. He’s communicating with the dragon. Maybe he’s even inside her, seeing through her eyes.

Before I can think, I nock an arrow and draw the string to my ear.

I lunge forward, pressing the arrowhead hard against Akares’s exposed throat, right over his pulse.

“Watch yourself, ’Ksnaka! Before you order the dragon to breathe. Watch yourself fiery carefully.”

His eyes don’t change; they remain fixed straight ahead, clouded with mist. “Shoot me if you wish, Iszaelda.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“You won’t do it,” he replies firmly. “You don’t have what it takes.”

The dragon hisses at the elves. She lowers her neck, slow and focused. Cold as ice. Like a hungry predator coiled to strike.

“You’re wrong,” I say. “I have everything I need, thanks to you.”

“You care too much to kill me.”

“Test me.”

“I’m testing you, my dear. Haven’t you realized that yet?”

“And that’s something you’ll regret.”

I step back and shift the bow toward the dragon. Then back to him.

I don’t know who I’m supposed to shoot.

The beast unfurls her vast, glistening wings like translucent satchel leaves rimmed with frost. She draws her head back and opens her jaws.

The elves see what’s coming. They turn and sprint toward the jungle.

Thankfully, Acranta is among them. But they won’t make it in time.

None of us will. We’re all about to burn.

I run, positioning myself directly between the dragon and the fleeing elves. I raise my bow toward her open jaws and quickly fire three arrows. They vanish into the darkness. Swallowed whole by the massive, gaping maw. The beast doesn’t shriek. Doesn’t even flinch.

She continues to charge her fire. The blue, glowing flame I’m not even sure I can survive. It’s coming, rising from the most profound depths of her throat. The decision comes fast. Akares is the one in control. I must set my feelings aside and do what I was destined to do. I have no choice.

Without thinking, I nock three arrows at once and fire them from the right side of the bow, just as he taught me.

I shoot them at Akares.

At Netharu’el.