at a time he crossed the room, through the bloody tide of magic, and took her in his arms. She swayed against him even as her magic hammered his. Isyllt fought too, flashes of silver-white and bone at the edge of his awareness.
“Let it go, Phaedra,” he whispered. Sticky warmth dripped into his beard, and a dozen scars ached as she tried to reopen the wounds. “This will bring you no peace.”
She touched his lips. “I would have forgiven you, if you’d only asked.”
He readied himself for the last assault he knew would follow.
He didn’t expect her to use a knife.
Isyllt shouted as the blade glittered in Phaedra’s hand, screamed as it slid home between Kiril’s ribs. Her throat ached with the force of it. He stumbled backward, into a wall, and slid slowly to the floor.
Phaedra watched him for a moment, her face grim and sad. Then she turned back to Mathiros. “Where was I?”
Isyllt stood frozen. Phaedra’s magic hung in red rags—now was the time to strike. But she could only stare at Kiril and will him to rise, to shake off the wound.
“Isyllt!” Nikos stood in the doorway, braced between the arch and Savedra’s supporting shoulder. “Stop her!”
A son’s plea. A prince’s command. Isyllt jerked toward Phaedra as the sorceress closed on Mathiros. The king dropped his sword, his face slack with despair. Kiril’s face was grey as ashes, his hand trembling as he reached for the knife. Blood spread shining across his black coat.
“Stop her,” Nikos yelled again.
“No,” she whispered, and turned to Kiril.
She took three strides before something inside her snapped like a kithara string and the force of her broken oath crushed her to her knees. Her vision greyed; the air in her lungs thickened and burned. She crawled, dragging useless legs behind her. Nikos was screaming. Mathiros was screaming. She ignored them all and crawled to Kiril’s side.
Her magic filled her like shards of glass; it would slice her to the bone if she seized it. But her death-sense remained: As soon as she touched him, she knew the wound was mortal. The blade shuddered with his heartbeat when she touched the hilt. A scalpel, a tiny thing, but it had found its mark.
“What do I do?” she asked, touching his face with trembling fingers. “What can I do?”
“Forgive me.” A bubble of blood burst on his lips. “Pull the knife out and let me die swiftly. Or leave it in, and let me spend a few more moments with you. Whichever option seems best to you.”
She cradled his head in her lap. Tears and blood dripped off her chin. “I’ll kill her,” she whispered. “I swear it.”
“Don’t.” His hand groped for hers, clung tight. Already cold, but some strength remained. “No revenge. You see what it does to you. But yes, you should stop her. It would be a mercy.” Each word was softer than the last. His dark eyes began to dim.
“You don’t have to die,” she whispered, lowering her head. Her hair and her tears fell over his face. “Not truly.”
“And become a demon? Undead? Could you stand the sight of me?”
She sobbed at the thought. Cold and empty, forever, dead and undying—
“I love you. Always you.”
“I knew it would be you—”
The words faded into a long rattling breath and the last spark inside him guttered. Death surrounded them, an owl-winged shadow reaching for Kiril. Isyllt flung herself against it, scrambling for power that sliced and crumbled at her touch.
She followed him into the dark.
The dark would not have her.
Savedra didn’t watch Mathiros die.
Nikos tried to intervene but his knees gave way, dragging them both to the floor. She pulled his head against her chest and buried her face in his hair, whispering meaningless sounds to drown the wet noises coming from Phaedra and the king.
When she opened her eyes again, Mathiros hung like an empty husk in Phaedra’s hands. Blood coated him, dripping from his fingers to dapple the floor. More slicked Phaedra’s hands and mouth. As Savedra watched, the red stains vanished into her skin—the splatters on her white gown remained. When the last drops were gone, the sorceress let him fall. Her face crumpled as she stared at the sunken corpse, exultation fled.
“How does it feel?”
Savedra started, scarcely recognizing Isyllt’s voice. The necromancer still knelt by Kiril, her face a half-mask of blood beneath the shroud of her hair.
“Was it worth it?”
“For a moment,” Phaedra said, almost too soft to hear. “For a moment it was. Now…