Chapter 65
Silla was buried in darkness and drowning in despair. The dark god was in every corner of her body, each crevice of her mind. She clawed against His hold, tried to bring herself back to the light.
No, she pleaded, thinking of Rey and Hekla and all of íseldur—of Saga and her promise they’d meet one day. The names expanded like bubbles in her chest, and for a moment, Silla held on to hope. She only needed to try harder—to fight with more vigor.
Your stubbornness would be admirable, whispered Myrkur, if it weren’t so bothersome. One by one, the bubbles burst, leaving her emptier than before.
Silla just needed to hang on a little longer. She grasped for the last shred of her control, but it was hopeless. Futile.
All you had to do was surrender to me, purred Myrkur, kneading her spine with His talons, lulling her with gentle beats of leathery wings. Such a waste of potential.
The dark god’s words were weighted, and her mind was buckling beneath the force of them. She collapsed to the ground, the last of her free will sliding through her fingers.
And then she knew. She’d never stood a chance. Myrkur would win this battle.