Page 36 of The Midnight Death Match

At that, a hint of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it’s fleeting. “Just don’t forget who held your hand when the fire came.”

The words are soft, and they land deeper than I expect.

I study him, heart tugging somewhere between guilt and warmth. Yet my mind echoes with Lys’s words, and I turn the mirrored crest over in my thoughts.

There’s nothing more to say, so I just nod.

Harek’s eyes darken slightly before he looks away.

I should try to comfort him, but I can’t stop thinking about what Lys said to me.

Chapter

Fourteen

IN THE TEMPLE RUINS

The fire isblue in this chamber. It’s cold, calculated, and fed by old magic. Each flick of the flame holds its own wisdom and strife.

Four figures stand in its glow, their faces shadowed by hoods lined in silver thread.

The tallest one leans over a map of Courtsview etched into obsidian. “She has found the ruins.”

Her calm voice is met with hints of disdain.

“The sword responded?” another asks, voice sharp and high.

“Yes. And the crest appeared again, mirrored.”

A pause.

“She’s not just awakening,” murmurs the third. “She’s aligning.”

A fourth voice speaks now, dry and amused. “And Lysandros?”

“Predictably unpredictable. He’s embedded himself again. Regaining power and momentum.”

“He always loved a lost cause.”

“His involvement could either hurt the cause or bolt it in the right direction. We’re going to have to keep a closer eye on everyone now.”

There’s silence as the map shifts—glowing lines showing movement around the rebel enclave.

“They think knowledge will save them,” the tall one says. “They forget how many of us helped bury it.”

“And the hunter?” asks the second again.

“Still walking, still unbroken. The father will not stop her. He will certainly sacrifice himself if the occasion calls for it.”

“And what of the boy? The wolf-born?”

“He burns. That’s useful.”

They fall quiet, and a breeze whips around full of their harried thoughts. Then the first steps closer to the fire, watching as blue flames curl toward the edge of the map, slowly engulfing the mirrored crest.

“It doesn’t matter if she’s the weapon,” the horned one says at last. “What matters is whether she chooses to fire.”

A glint of something dark and wet rolls across the stone. Not wax, but a rune scorches itself into the corner of the map, jagged and wrong.