Chapter Twenty-Eight
I scream as Lydia’s body hits the ground.
My legs move before I’m fully conscious of what I’m doing. I race for my sister and pull her into my lap. “Lydia, please,
Lydia,” I sob, but her body is nothing but a limp husk. She’s not there anymore.
There is no death rattle, no fluttering eyelids, no last words on her lips.
Blood blooms around her like a great crimson flower.
Lydia was gone before she hit the ground.
My vision goes dark. The screams that pour from me are so animalistic, I’m not even certain it’s me making the noise.
The crowd is deadly silent, the only sound is my wailing, and the crunching of Bram’s boots in the gravel.
He’s risen from his throne and hopped over the railing of his observation box into the arena.
His head blocks out the sun and he tuts with pity.
He nudges Lydia’s limp foot with the toe of his boot. “What a mess you’ve made of things, Ivy. Look at what you’ve done.”
My pain is so much worse than a broken hand: it’s everywhere, all-consuming. I’m burning and breaking and numb all at once.
I tense, ready to spring up at him and claw his eyes out. I don’t even care if it won’t kill him; I need to see him bleed,
make him pay.
My good hand is clenched, and I’m about to throw myself at him when the ground begins to shake, pitching me backward. Bram
stumbles but remains on his feet.
Over his shoulder, still bound, in the stands, Rhion has spit out his gag and is screaming, but the noise is swallowed by
a mighty groan as the land shudders from deep within its core, like it’s a living thing. Then comes the soft sound of small
rocks falling, skittering over the smooth marble, and the stands begin to crumble. The crowd shrieks as they run, frantically
searching for safety and solid ground. Rhion covers Marion and Faith with his own body.
I can’t see Bram.
The gravel of the arena shakes too, and then a crack rings out and the ground splits right down the middle.
Water pours in from either end, until it creates a roaring stream that bisects the coliseum. The ground ripples once more,
and trees shoot from the ground up into the sky with another deafening crack. Vines snake around their growing roots, covering
the gravel with tangled foliage.
Lightning pierces the sky as dark clouds roll in, dimming the daylight in a matter of seconds. They open up and sheets of
torrential rain begin to fall, pooling on the ground and soaking me to the bone.
All around are the screams of people fleeing, but I’m barely paying attention. It crosses my mind that perhaps I’m dead too.
A part of me wishes I was. I would trade my life for Lydia’s without a thought.
I can’t see anyone through the wall of dense green leaves. So I hold my sister, knowing these will be the last moments we have together, and pull her to my heaving chest while I sob. My tears run down my neck until they become indistinguishable with the rivulets of rain streaming over my skin.
A small gasp pierces through my trance and I look down, surprised to find Duddon. They’re dressed just as they were the last
time I saw them, in their silver fish scales, and their tiny face is lined with concern.
They suck a finger into their mouth and remove it with a pop. “More tears, my lady?” Their voice is wobbly with sadness and they approach me with trepidation and then run a tiny, sharp
hand, heartbreaking in its gentleness, over Lydia’s soaked hair.
“The land is crying, too,” they say quietly.
“The land?” I ask, confused.
“She is our queen, she is connected to this place, to its people,” Duddon explains slowly, like I’m a lost child.
I’m reminded of the memory I saw of Lydia and Emmett in the Isern Caves. Lydia was looking around the wilting castle gardens.
I think the land is sad when he’s not here was what she said about Bram and his frequent absences. Is there a chance she knew because she was connected to it, too?
Did Bram think so little of Lydia it never occurred to him to consider her the true queen of the Otherworld? Did it never
cross his mind she might possess her own kind of magic?
“My heart hurts.” Duddon clutches their chest. “The land cries out for her. It’s mourning. All of the folk who are connected
feel it too.”
A shout of agony pierces through the driving rain, and my head snaps up. That was Bram’s voice, I know it was, and this isn’t
over yet.
With as much tenderness as I can muster with only one working hand, I leave Lydia on a bed of vines that are bursting into brilliant pink flowers, and push myself to stand.
“Wait!” comes Duddon’s tiny voice behind me.
I turn to see them crouched over the spring, pulling something heavy from out of its depths. Their body slumps and strains
as they struggle to lift whatever it is, and then they turn, their face in a triumphant grin, their eyes still watery.
“A gift, in exchange for the tears.”
They pull the object through the writhing vines and drop it at my feet.
I gasp as I finally see what it is. The blade is soaked, but still sharp. I bend, and grasp the hilt of the sword Bram gave
me during the first trial to kill the unicorn—the sword I threw into Duddon’s spring in a failed attempt to save the creature.
“Go. Be clever,” Duddon instructs.
I pick up the sword, and on heavy feet, my shoes soaked through, take off in the direction of Bram’s audible struggling.
I slash through the ever-growing forest that has sprung up in the middle of the coliseum. But it doesn’t take long; Bram is
only a few paces away.
“Ivy.” His voice is agonized as I cut through the clearing and see him fully.
He’s pinned to a massive tree, his back flush against the trunk, his arms and legs held in place by thick branches that have
wound around him like claws.
He struggles against them, his wrists already visibly raw with effort, but they do not budge.
His eyes flash to the sword in my hand. “Cut me free, Ivy. Now.”
But I do not obey. I stand there, looking at him in icy silence, the rain pouring down my face and arms, until it drips off the tip of my sword.
In his face, I search for the boy who kissed me in the garden at a ball, who made me feel so special and cared for at a time
in my life when I felt nothing but small and lost and afraid.
Is Bram as good as you say?
It was one of the first questions I ever asked Emmett, when we were scheming to put him on the throne. I know the answer now.
Bram’s life has gone on too long, and whatever goodness that might have once existed within him has withered and atrophied
and died, leaving nothing but a desperate creature who feeds on power and control like a predator.
Another branch sprouts from the tree and winds itself around Bram’s neck, pulling tighter and tighter until he’s sputtering.
“Please,” he rasps.
I march toward him, dragging my sword at my side, until we are nearly nose to nose, close enough to kiss.
In his gray eyes, I search for any flicker of regret.
“Why did you do it?” I ask him, my voice cracking around the question. “Why pit us against each other like this?”
Bram’s eyes drop closed, his lips growing pale. “I only wanted you to fight for me. Why didn’t you fight for me, Ivy?”
“What about Lydia?” My question comes out in a sob.
Bram doesn’t answer and the tree branches keep squeezing tighter, digging into the tender flesh of his throat.
“Is this what pain is?” His voice is barely a whisper now. “No wonder you go to such lengths to avoid it. This is awful.”
I look up at the top of the tree. Its branches are swaying in the driving storm. It’s a solid, sturdy thing, and if I hadn’t just seen it grow myself, I would have assumed it was hundreds of years old.
The realization strikes me that this is the land’s revenge upon Bram for killing their beloved queen. It’s never going to
let him go.
I could leave him here, stuck and suffering for the rest of his eternal life, or I could put an end to this.
I look down at the silver blade of my sword, at the raindrops running down its sharp edge.
Cold iron.
We thought that meant unforged, but maybe we were wrong.
This sword has never had a drop of blood spilled upon it.
Bram’s eyes are fully closed now. His chest rises and falls with great effort as water runs down the delicate beading of his
doublet. “I only wanted you to love me. Didn’t you love me, Ivy?”
I lean forward and press one final kiss to his cheek. “I hope this is a mercy,” I say, and then drive the sword into his chest.
I don’t stop until the blade hits the solid trunk of the tree behind him and Bram goes limp.