Chapter 44
SISTER
Seryn
Araven flew across the star-speckled sky, glossy wings slicing through the haze above the muddy water. Its shadow glided over the platform, between the Nyxvein tendrils slinking back into the conservatories.
It banked sharply, letting out a caw that made every hair on my arms stand. When it landed, it burst into a billow of stars, and the Ancient of Illusions emerged. She stood at the edge, her eyes shining as if cut from glass.
“Phantasos—” I breathed, relief and question twining through my voice.
She inclined her head; her smile pressed between the thin seam of her lips. “Balance.”
The word dropped at my boots, where Jace’s runes were nothing but charred etchings, the wood splintered through the symbol.
Marek stomped forward, his quarterstaff gripped tight in his hand. “What have you done?”
Yaya’s palm whipped out before him, firm and commanding. “Mind yourself.”
But the Ancient’s gaze had already slid toward him—brief, assessing—something uncanny flickering in her expression. “So much of him in you,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
I glanced at my cousin, and he squinted, a vein pulsing in his temple as if his mind was racing, chewing on her meaning. As far as I knew, his childhood was a blur to him. He didn’t even remember how he’d gotten scarred.
I moved between them, anger thrumming against my jaw. “What balance requires freeing a monster?” I demanded. “You saw what he did. To the realms, to the people in Midst Fall—”
“The Fates know what must be done,” she cut in smoothly. “Death unbalances what they have decreed. He is the darkness that gives your light meaning.”
Breena scoffed. “Bloody living gives life meaning.”
“The Fates weigh more than mortal hearts,” Phantasos replied.
Gavrel’s hand found my lower back. “Ancients and mortals alike will perish if Phobetor has his way.”
The platform quaked beneath us. The gilly toads fell silent in the distance.
“You—” I started, but the words caught in the back of my throat as a deep, resonant groan rose from beneath the decagon.
With a thunderous boom, the wood split at her feet, and a swarm of shadows exploded in a vortex of shrieking wind and black mist. The impact threw several of us backward.
Phantasos hovered above, unmoving, ribbons of light spiraling lazily around her.
Then the shadows condensed. They pulled inward, writhing like a storm forced into a human shape. But this Ancient was anything but human. The darkness melted away, and Phobetor stepped forward, a satisfied grin hanging off his incisors.
“Sister,” he drawled.
Phantasos’ form flickered, her face shifting into a blur of many, like reflections in rippling water. “Brother.” The word was hollow.
His smile twitched, gaze flicking to me. “Ah, niece. The little dirtling who thought she could cage an Ancient.”
I raised my dagger, though my hand shook. “I did more than just think.”
He licked his bottom lip. “You have your father’s arrogance.”
Marek moved to my other side. “And our family’s stubbornness,” he barked.
Phobetor’s head tilted, something unreadable passing over his expression as he studied Marek. A faint line carved between his brows. “Curious.”
The ground convulsed again, my uncle’s shadows arching like stretching cats beneath the planks.
Phantasos turned to face me; her metallic eyes, the only stable feature on her countenance, flashed. “Belladonna, heed my words. What follows was always meant.”
“No,” I spat the word. “Damn you to the Murk. Both of you.”
Her lips quirked, and she sighed. “Perhaps.”
And then she spread her arms wide and vanished, dissolving into a flurry of glittering dust.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Then Phobetor snickered. A low, grating sound that made the doombarks quiver. “Now,” he purred, “let’s see what the Fates have chosen for you, Elder.”