Chapter 39
We tear through the forest at a dead sprint.
We’re hoping that the monsters lurking beneath the river will deter the guards from crossing over to the other side, but a few are bound to make it over.
Plus, we’re on a clock—any moment now, King Ariar will arrive with an army of deadly elves in tow.
My light will do nothing against them, nor will our army of two Sun Elves, no matter how skilled they might be.
We have to move fast, or we’ll miss our only chance to make it back to Earth.
Naturally, Michael is the slowest runner.
He has long legs, but I doubt the Shadow Elves allowed him to get much use out of them over the last seven years.
He’s weak—physically and mentally. I don’t have time to talk with him about the trauma of his capture right now, but once we’re home, the second place he’s going—after the hospital—is a therapist. A good one.
It takes several hours to crash through the forest. On several occasions, urrath or skria jump into our path, but Daerios and Berendir don’t even need to draw their swords. I slice open a line on my palm, shine it on the beasts, and they scatter faster than startled pigeons.
Less than a mile to the end of the forest, Michael’s legs give out. He can’t go on. My heart jumps frantically around in my chest, knowing we have no time left to spare. Just as I’m about to suggest we take a minute to rest, Daerios bends over, scoops Michael into his arms, and starts to run again.
Cara and I trade a look. Then we follow.
Even with Michael’s long limbs bouncing chaotically about in Daerios’s arms, the prince’s pace doesn’t falter. He leads us through the last mile. At the end of the tree line, we burst through the black leaves and branches, out into the clearing.
And that’s when we see the army.
Not the Shadow King’s—Varith Ariar’s. He stands at the foot of the mountain, Saechon on one side, Adan Melde on the other.
A cluster of soldiers stand around them, but the army doesn’t end there; it extends far up the path we followed down the mountain, a poisonous serpent ready to slither down and descend upon us.
“Perfect!” The king claps, grinning like a TV show host. “We’re all here.
You’ve saved us the trouble of dragging the Lightbearer through the portal and storming árrion to rescue her brother to fulfill our end of the bargain.
” He takes a few steps forward and claps his son on the shoulder. “Well done, my boy.”
Daerios flinches. In another lifetime, that compliment might have made him euphoric.
He’s finally getting what he wants: the respect of a father who never took him seriously, who wrote him off as a fool, a failure, happy to pass his time on Earth with booze and women and very little else.
And maybe that was Daerios, for a time. A son who sought the title of family fuck-up because he thought it would shield him from his father’s inevitable disappointment.
But beneath it all, he was just Daerios.
Just a little boy longing for his father’s approval.
Now, 163 years later, he has it. He has a hand on his shoulder, those eyes gazing at him with pride.
And he looks like he wants to throw up.
“Why the long face, son?” The king’s hand drops, coming to rest on the hilt of his sword.
“Am I to believe that you didn’t carry out this mission on my behalf?
Am I to believe that you stole the girl from our tent camp, ferried her into Elaerion, rescued her brother, and were on your way back to hide her on Earth?
” He clucks. “I certainly hope not. You of all people should know the consequences for betraying the crown.”
My eyes dart to Daerios, whose face remains a frigid blank. Consequences? What consequences? I had assumed that his status as prince would grant him immunity, or at least keep his punishment to a minimum. But based on the king’s tone…
“She doesn’t know, does she?” King Ariar’s voice pulls my eyes back to him.
“Know what?” I ask.
“She doesn’t.” The King shakes his head. “You have no idea what my son risked in rescuing you. No clue about the punishment set in place for any elf who dares interfere with our mission to salvage Elaerion.”
“What punishment?” I ask, but the king only smiles. I round on the prince, heart hammering, hands clenched into fists at my side. “What punishment, Daerios?”
He won’t even meet my gaze.
“It’s death, Quinn,” King Ariar says, no remorse in his voice. “The punishment for betraying the crown is death.”
The world blurs. Turns a blinding shade of white.
My eyes shutter, and I see nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing, am filled to the brim with nothing, nothing, nothing.
All I feel is the steady thump of my heart.
I expect it to continue pounding against my ribcage, but it does the opposite; it slows.
Quiets. Taps softly within me, a caress, a whisper, as if preparing itself to be broken.
When my eyes blink open at last, King Ariar is still talking. “—didn’t know how much he cared for you, eh? Consider that.” He twists around and raises his voice to address his army. “Daerios Ariar, in love! Who would have thought?”
On cue, the army bursts into laughter, Saechon right along with them. Saechon, laughing at his brother’s impending death. I want to strangle him.
Impending death.
I look to Daerios, who has finally raised his eyes to meet my gaze. There are no tears, no regret. I’m sorry, his eyes seem to say, but I would do it again. I would do it a thousand times over.
I want to close the few steps between us and hit him.
To punish him for being such a goddamned reckless fool.
But I can’t. Because a plan has begun to form in my head.
A plan that will protect Daerios, and my friends, and possibly even save Elaerion.
But that plan requires that Daerios stay as far away from me as possible.
“Right.” The king returns his attention to us, stroking the sword at his side. “Let’s save our realm, shall we? Now seems as good a time as—”
His speech is interrupted by thumping footfalls and the crash of tree branches. We whip around to see black leaves rustling along the tree line, and moments later, a swarm of Shadow Elves emerge into the clearing, the Shadow King at their head.
The Shadow Elves come to a halt ten feet away. The army slows and spreads out, forming a wall of pale, sinuous bodies before the entrance to the forest. For several beats, no one speaks. King Ariar surveys the troops standing before him; the Shadow King surveys the massive army behind Ariar.
The Shadow King speaks first. “Varith.”
“Duvainor,” Ariar replies.
“How kind of you to pay us a visit.”
“It’s long overdue.” Ariar gestures to the dark forest. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”
“Mm.” Duvainor folds his hands behind his back and considers their surroundings. “It is rather homey, isn’t it?”
“You’ve lost, Duvainor.” A tight smile pulls at Ariar’s lips.
“We have the Lightbearer. We have the means for executing her. Enjoy your final moments in the disgusting nightmare you call home, because, soon enough, it will be back to Shadowfell for you and your companions.” He pauses. “That is, if I let you live.”
Duvainor lifts his hand and examines his fingernails. “I wouldn’t concern yourself with my death, Ariar. I would be more worried about keeping your own army alive.”
“We outnumber you twenty-to-one. And more soldiers are filtering through the portal at the top of the mountain as we speak.”
“How cute.” Duvainor raises two fingers.
“But did you bring demons?” He sticks his fingers into either corner of his mouth and whistles.
On command, urrath leap out into the clearing and skria burst from the treetops, along with dozens of other creatures that I have no name for—two-legged and four-legged and six-legged and no-legged, with tentacles and gaping jaws and spiked backs and foot-long claws.
The type of monsters I’ve only ever seen in my nightmares.
Apparently, far more was hiding in that forest than Daerios let on.
They come to a halt beside the Shadow King, all poised to strike.
With the added onslaught of nightmarish beasts surrounding us, the scales do seem to tip slightly in favor of the opposition.
Oh, fuck.
“That’s it, then,” King Ariar says. “You won’t give up peacefully. You realize what this means, don’t you, Duvainor?”
“I do.”
“You realize that lives will be lost on both sides. Innocent lives. Deaths that could easily be avoided if you just surrender and return to Shadowfell.”
Lives will be lost. Innocent lives. All I can picture are Cara and Michael, Daerios and Berendir.
I can’t lose them. Not after how far we’ve come.
Not when the mere idea of their death steals my breath away and makes the world go hazy at the edges.
Fear. Fear and pre-emptive mourning. I remember what it feels like to grieve.
I remember the soul-splitting pain, the gaping hole within me, the years of hollow numbness.
I won’t be able to do it again. I know I won’t.
I think of my mother, back home in Minnesota. If we all die here, she’ll never know how close she came to getting her son back.
Maybe it’s better that way.
And even if we win the battle, even if everyone I love comes out unscathed, Daerios will still die. He will be executed by his own father, all because he chose to help me save Michael.
All because he loves me.
It’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to think the words.
Why not, when death is so close that nothing I do is of any consequence anymore?
And it’s true. I know to my very core that it’s true.
It doesn’t matter that he first took an interest in me because he believed me to be the Lightbearer.
At some point, our relationship changed.
I changed. Something blossomed between us, something whole and beautiful and unbreakable.
Daerios loves me. He loves me, and I love him back.
At once, I’m filled with a strange mixture of terror and euphoria. I glance over at Daerios, and warmth seeps into my stomach, swirling all throughout my body. I love you, I think. I love you, I love you, I love you.
I can’t let him die. I can’t. The thought of losing him sends searing pain through every inch of my body, as if I’ve already been torn to pieces by one of the beasts standing by Duvainor’s side. I need to save him.
And I think I know how to do it.
“I understand the cost, Varith.” The Shadow King draws his saber, signaling for the rest of his army to do the same. “My people have never known such freedom as they do now. We spent millennia confined to that small patch of Elaerion. We won’t be going back.”
The elves shift in stance, readying themselves for battle.
The army on the mountain draws their weapons.
Daerios and Berendir step in front of Cara, Michael, and me, ushering us far behind them, out of the line of battle.
As subtly as possible, I inch further away from Cara and my brother.
I need to be far enough away that no one can stop me from what I’m about to do.
Because I know a solution that will solve everything. What will drive the Shadow Elves away, save Elaerion, and spare Daerios his punishment.
I draw the Shadow Sword.
Cara glances over at me. Believing I’m preparing myself to fight, she nods once, then turns back to face the opposition, drawing her bow and arrow.
Her blind trust makes me ache. I know I’m about to cause my best friend an immense amount of pain, and it’s the last thing I want to do. But if it saves her life…
I will do whatever it takes to save the people I love.
Which is why, when the tension finally breaks—when the Shadow Elves rush toward the mountain army, when battle cries echo into the night, and the skria sweep downward, and the urrath race forward with maws open and claws swinging, and the first clash of metal on metal breaks through the air, signaling the start of a bloodbath—
When everyone’s attention is on anything but me, I hold out the Shadow Sword, flip it around so that its end points toward my chest, and plunge it into my heart.