It’s death. It’s always been death. The final piece, the final key, the thing that has been driving us all. There’s no escape. There never was.
—Fragment from the personal journals of Innokentiy Tamarkin
It was when the tether that tied Nadya to Malachiasz snapped that he struck. It was through an overwhelming tide of grief that he channeled all the chaos of his power into throwing the storm before him into the trap he had built within his spell book.
It was too much.
Even with Serefin’s power alongside his own. Even with what he knew was Parijahan’s calm in the storm. Even with the last dregs of Nadya’s dying eldritch magic. It was too much.
Malachiasz knew when he was overwhelmed. Chyrnog’s smug satisfaction. They hadn’t been strong enough. If they hadn’t all chosen mortality, would they have been able to trap him? If one of them had sacrificed more, would it have been enough?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He didn’t know.
He pressed his hand against the worn cover of his spell book, blood dripping down his arms, from his eyes, from his nose. He worked to form the magic swirling around them.
He … failed.
So, he pulled on Chyrnog’s power. He formed the entropy into himself. It would take him. It would eat him. But maybe it would be enough.
He dimly heard someone swearing. Felt someone’s hand over his. Too late. It was too late. They weren’t strong enough. They wouldn’t ever be strong enough. They chose to be human; they chose to live.
And so, they chose to die.