Kuu
“I don’t understand,” Kuu said. He couldn’t make out anything in the darkness of the cell, and he was straining to see inside.
“The Holder has been awakened,” came the voice. “You are too late—we are too late.”
“But too late for what?” Kuu asked, stepping inside and pulling the door shut. When he turned around and his eyes adjusted, he almost wished they hadn’t.
“To stop the coming dark,” the voice said. Before him, flickering like candlelight, was the visage of a woman dressed in white, whose silver hair and sharp green eyes told Kuu exactly who she was.
“Mother,” he said with a degree of reverence. The one they called the mother of his people was standing before him, with only a few feet of space separating them. He hadn’t expected to actually make it this far, but from the tone in her voice, it might not have mattered. “You know this for sure?”
“Yes, Kuu, I do,” she said. “I have seen it. I knew it the moment that the Holder filled his Vessel. He has the Wolfblade, and he is coming for me. We are lost.”
“No,” Kuu said reflexively. They had all been planning and orchestrating this for so long; he was not about to abandon hope now. “There has to be something we can do,” he said. “Anything is better than nothing.”
The Ghost was silent for what felt like an eternity.
“There is one thing,” she finally said, hesitance lining her voice. “And it cannot be undone.”
“Then do it.”
The Ghost stepped forward, and for the first time Kuu noticed how stunningly beautiful she was, even in the darkness of her cell. It was no surprise that not one but two gods had fought over her. He found himself willing to do anything she asked of him. When her hand reached out for his cheek and he felt the cold of her embrace, his thoughts were drowned in a flood of sensations.
He felt warm and cold all at once, like standing too close to a fire on a frigid night.
He felt his knees start to shake, and bile crept up his throat.
He wavered, staggered, and fell.
And then the world went black.
Sivulu
There was no end to the attackers.
For every one he killed, it seemed another rose to take its place, thanks to the malignant powers of the Priest of the Holder. He was beginning to tire.
Behind him, the battle still raged. And, although the wolfwalkers and their allies were mighty warriors, there was simply no turning some tides. He began to feel that a retreat was not only prudent but necessary. He hoped Kuu was able to make it to the Ghost.
That was when he saw it: a gray streak that burst from Yelto’s palace and into the light.
Kuu! He’d made it!
He felt a surge of energy and hope as his brother ran free.
But that hope turned to dismay when he realized the truth: Kuu was alone.
There was no Ghost to be seen.
So this is it then, Sivulu thought. We’ve lost. He watched the soldiers closing in as the minuscule form of his brother charged past him, out of the compound, and headed straight for the dunes of the Wastes of Khulakorum.
He didn’t intend for his last thoughts of his brother to be ones of disappointment, but the cold blade that slid past his ribs ensured that they were. A strong hand brought him to the ground and rolled him onto his back, where he stared into the eyes of a brown-haired woman. Her multicolored eyes, haunting and sharp, were filled with hatred—and tears.
“I will not make you suffer,” she said through a clenched jaw, “because you did not make him. But Aldis Tennech was the father I never had, and you robbed me of that, forever.”
With every heartbeat, Sivulu could feel the blood pumping out of him and onto the desert floor; the feeling of defeat was too great. If the Holder had been awakened and the Ghost was gone, what was the point?
He let go of his lupine form. If he was to die, he wanted to die as a man.
The woman before him watched him change, but her rage did not subside.
“If you seek mercy from me,” she said, her sword hand trembling, “you will not receive it.”
“No,” Sivulu protested weakly. He could heal himself, he knew, but his world was crumbling around him. Everything they had fought for—everything they had died for—was coming undone. “Let it never be said that Sivulu Imha-khet begged for mercy.”
Gathering herself up to her full height, the woman grasped her sword with both hands, pointing it down at Sivulu’s chest, poised to drive it through his heart.
“And let it never be said that Lilyana Coros ever gave it,” she said as she drove the blade down with all of her strength.
There was cold, there was pain.
There was darkness . . .
There was nothing.