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CHAPTER

Fifty-Seven

F OR ONE TO LIVE , another must die.

Yasila held her friend’s hand, in a quiet room. “I could bind the wound,” she said.

He shook his head, smiling through the pain. The Dragon was coming for him—to delay its arrival was not the way of things.

Somewhere deep in the weapons round, the Visitor had made a mistake. He used the same feint he’d made in another fight. Foolish. Fatal. Ruko evaded the true strike, stepped in smoothly, and sliced his sword along the Visitor’s waist. That first wound had slowed him down. The second was much deeper. The second was killing him.

“Something happened, before the second bell. A shift in his spirit. I fought a different man.”

Yasila’s face hardened. “I saw no change in him. He is Rivenna’s creature. She has sculpted him in his father’s image.”

“Then it is over. I have failed.”

“No. This was my mistake. All of it. Never yours.”

The Visitor closed his eyes, fighting a fresh wave of pain. He groaned softly, then fell silent. For a moment she thought she had lost him, but his chest still rose and fell. He was still with her. She stared at his collarbone, his jawline. When she was younger, she had stared so often at those same places, imagining how it would feel to touch them. She had wanted him so much. They were too young, too shy. A lifetime ago. A lifetime gone.

“Pyke,” she said, and he half-opened his eyes. A soft grey. They had been a dark amber, when she knew him best. But they were lovely, like this. “I am sorry for the hurt I have caused you.”

“You brought me more happiness than hurt, Yasila.”

“I do not believe that.”

He looked at her, and the door to his heart was open. “The only good memories I have, my whole life, are of you.” He touched his scar, her initial. Smiled. “Perhaps not… this one.”

She smiled back, as her heart broke.

Another bout of pain took him. She held his hand, wondering if this would be the time. Praying to the Dragon, not yet, not yet. Give me one more moment. You owe me that. You, who have taken so much from me.

The Visitor emerged from his battle visibly weaker. He traced an eternal eight on her hand with his thumb.

“We shall meet again on the Path,” he whispered. “I know this. Yasila.”

He fell still.

She kissed him then, on his forehead. Buried her head in his neck. “Stay, stay,” she said, as if she could bind him to life. But he was already gone.