It seemed impossible that he had crossed the continent in a single stride, and yet, here he was. Fighting for her.
But his presence meant he could die.
“Rune!” Her voice was lost under the clangor of violence, the screeches and grunts of rancor, the scraping of talons on the bone floor.
Though he could not have heard her, he looked up. His eyes met hers.
Then: a word she’d thought was lost forever.
A name. Her name.
She didn’t hear it—not out loud—but saw it form on his lips.
“Medella.” The shock of it made him gasp, as though her name were lightning he’d caught in his hands.
He remembered.
He remembered her name.
Her soul shard knew her at last.
The connection between them locked into place—like a gold thread that spun from her heart to his, a light, a strength.
He said her name again, this time with a disbelieving little laugh, and—
Freedom.
The dark tether that had bound her to Daghath Mal frayed and snapped apart. In her mind, in the place where he used to whisper, there was only quiet. A haze lifted from her eyes, and a hum vanished from her ears. She hadn’t even realized they had been there, but now that this terrible magic had broken away, she felt clean for the first time in four hundred years.
Nightrender swung Beloved, beheading a rancor in a single stroke.
And there was no pain.
None at all.
Euphoria surged through her. Fire strengthened her muscles and sharpened her wings. Every cut, every hit—Nightrender’s might swelled within her as she fought, cleaving through rancor that were only now learning what it meant to battle the Sword of the Numina, the Hero Eternal.
Rune pushed forward, moving away from the portal just in time for another man to arrive, this one on horseback. It was John, his guard. Two, three, ten more soldiers surged through the portal, weapons swinging. Rancor screamed under the sudden onslaught. These men were but mortals, but in the Malice, with this many rancor pressed so close together, every swing of the blade struck home.
Numinous light flashed. Rancor blood misted in the air, sizzling where it hit skin and armor. Her burns faded within moments; she hardly felt them beneath the fire of her own righteous fury; on the men, though, they smoked.
Rancor bodies piled up around her. Power sang through her sword, her true strength finally unleashed. She cut and she stabbed, lashing out with her good wing, feathers slicing into rancor flesh. But now the bulk of the rancor were pressing toward Rune and his guards, the easier targets.
If only she could fly, she would race through the room and defend him and the others. But her left wing still hung at a wretched angle, refusing to move.
She must take the slower, deadlier way.
Nightrender leaped off the thrones and pressed forward, her sword flashing. It felt so good to fight, to destroy evil. She had almost grown used to the pain, but now that she was free she understood how much it had held her back.
Waves of holy fire raced across the room at her command, burning through her enemies. There were rancor—and then there weren’t.
“What has happened?” Daghath Mal’s voice came from everywhere at once. “What did you do?”
Nightrender smiled grimly as she thrust her sword into the back of a rancor’s skull. She was free of him, free of his whispers and influence.
Rune was near now. Nightrender could feel him, a magnetic pull on her very soul. His men formed a ring around him, but already two were dead, with another clutching a wound in his side. A quick glance at the breach told her no others were coming through, so this was all the help she was going to get.
She needed them alive; she needed them to pull Rune back through the breach and to the dubious safety of Salvation. Then, she would finish here. For the first time, victory seemed possible.
She might succeed.
The rhythm of battle wore on, as familiar as the sun rising and falling. She killed, and she did so quickly, efficiently, blood making the floor slick and sticky. Her good wing flared, cutting rancor to ribbons; Beloved flashed, severing skin and muscle and bone. Her armor stitched itself together, quickly now, as it drew upon her power.
Ahead, however, Rune and his men were flagging. Three more had died.
They were outnumbered. No matter how valiantly they fought, she would not be able to reach them in time. For every rancor that fell, another pressed into its place.
She needed to change tactics.
“Enough!” Nightrender called. “Daghath Mal, I would speak with you!”
At first, nothing happened. Rancor battled on, and another guard fell—unable to withstand the claws and teeth. But then the horde withdrew, hunching low as they glared hungrily at her, Rune, and John—the lone survivors.
Great alabaster wings beat the air as Daghath Mal landed directly before Nightrender.
She glared up at him. “You may surrender now.”
Daghath Mal chuckled, fanning his wings. “Ah, you thought because your power is restored that you might win.”
Nightrender glanced at Rune. His eyes were narrowed, hard. Black blood dripped off his sword—what was left of it. Acid had already eaten away the sharp edge. John, too, was hampered by his blood-burned weapons.
Neither could endure more.
“But there is no winning,” Daghath Mal said. “Not for you.”
“Every moment I prevent your release is a victory to me.” Nightrender flicked a glob of blood off her sword. “You may believe superior numbers are all that matter, but know this: I will kill every rancor in the Malice; I will tear down this castle bone by bone; and I will drag your maimed and bleeding body to the Rupture, where I will hurl you back into the Dark Shard. It may take me days. Weeks, even. Years. But I will overcome you.”
“Your soul shard would die.”
“No. He and his guard will return to Salvation through the breach.”
Daghath Mal made a thoughtful noise deep in his throat, then motioned at a rancor. It threw itself at the portal—and bounced back.
“It’s one way,” the rancor king said, coldly amused. “None of us shall escape through it.”
Not even Rune. The thought speared Nightrender, but she had to be strong. Resolute. “If my soul shard is to perish, he will be reincarnated.”
“But you are losing memories,” Daghath Mal growled softly. “What if you don’t remember what a soul shard is next time?”
Nightrender flexed her fingers around Beloved’s hilt, readjusting her grip. “Regardless, I must destroy you.”