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Pain ripped through Emara in a flash of black as if she’d been plunged into icy dark water and wrenched out again. She gasped in a huge lungful of air, her eyes flashing open—to find the nightmare she’d been dreading for the last month unfolding before her exactly as she remembered it.

Everard’s still-warm fingers were just now slipping from her wrist in a wash of blue yanaa, and Ivanora staggered back in horror, her dark eyes widening as they landed on Emara with recognition sparking through them.

Beyond her, Aza lay in a growing crimson pool of her own blood, while farther off, the Lost mauled the fallen Makeo, Zephyr tried to cut through the mob of Conrad’s Hunters to reach them, and the small black cat that was Shadmundar lay in a motionless crumple against the wall. And over the cacophony of anguish and death, Idriel roared, his mouth frothing at the nearness of his revival.

In a single breath, Emara took it all in. But this time, she wasn’t wounded, she wasn’t tired, and she wasn’t frightened. Yanaa unlike any she’d ever known brimmed from her skin, and she knew it had been passed through so many hands to get to her: from her mother and grandfather, from Chipo, and Everard, and Bellaphia… and even Odriel himself. So many had sacrificed so much for her to be here, and she would not let them down.

“You killed Bellaphia.” Ivanora took another staggering step forward, black filling her eyes as the yanaa began to swirl around her. “Killed my sister. My brother.” She pulled the sword from her waist, and for a moment, it almost seemed like Emara was watching this all for the second time.

“Careful, we need her,” Conrad warned, his eyes glowing green while he maneuvered his creatures against Zephyr’s blade.

“I don’t care who you are, you murdering slug.” Ivanora’s voice rose to a scream as she brandished the sword in front of her. “You’re just as good to us dead.” With that, she lunged forward.

She unleashed her grief, her guilt, and the powerlessness that’d weighed on her for the last ten years. She forged it into a weapon and became who she was supposed to be.

She ducked Ivanora’s slash, and with one sweep of her hand, her yanaa surged through the room in a tidal wave. With no time for control, the fingers of her yanaa closed around the room in a wide arc. It hit Aza first, filling the holes in her back and stealing away her pain. Then to Makeo, with his hundreds of growing wounds, and even the little black cat with his horribly broken body… but a still weakly beating heart. It even spun through Zephyr, whisking away the fatigue of days without sleep, the burn of his muscles, and the drain of his yanaa.

She gathered it all in a dark looming cloud, her skin breaking out with sweat beneath the heavy, excruciating weight of it. Then, with blue beaming from every inch of her body, she looked straight into Ivanora’s black eyes. “This world is yours no more.”

With that, she drove the spike of suffering straight into Ivanora’s chest. The rage flashed to shock for only a moment before her face twisted to pure agony, and her yanaa immediately ceased, the air stilling in the fetid room.

“Ivanora!” Conrad yelled.

The yanaa still channeling through her in a thick cornflower swirl, Emara turned to where Conrad purpled with strain, his fingers tense. Where there’d been a flowing stream of green yanaa, there was now only a thin trickle.

“What have you done?” he rasped.

Emara’s blue-tinted vision swiveled to find that some of the puppets had stopped obeying, clutching their heads and blinking as if they’d only just awoken. Zephyr froze in place, sword still raised as the freed Hunters turned away from him and toward their captor.

These were just men and women after all. People that had lives and dreams before they’d been turned into nothing more than weapons—fodder to fall under the Heirs’ blades. They lurched unsteadily toward Conrad, as if together remembering all the bloody, wretched things he’d forced on them.

“No, you can’t,” Conrad said, spooling the green yanaa around his hands and drawing the truly dead into a barrier of corpses around him. “I am a child of Idriel, a commander of the King.”

Idriel roared, dragging his bloated body from the dais in support, head lolling from his shoulders. But if the newly freed captives noticed, they didn’t show it. One bellowed and lifted his sword in a mad dash toward the Lost, and the others fell behind him, starting the clash anew. As the blades crashed together, Emara sucked in a breath and threw out another net of her yanaa, the strands of blue electricity coursing from one to another as the Lost clawed into them. But she would not let them fall.

Not while she stood.

Zephyr, now free again, turned to the rotting, maggoty monster bellowing as it forced its way toward him. Thrusting his hands out, he unleashed two streams of molten lava onto the creature, only for it to splash harmlessly against the yanai barrier that protected it. The creature roared again, its fangs dripping with green, curling yanaa. With a dismissive flick of its spiny skeletal hand, the Dragon Heir hurtled across the dais to smash into a marble column.

Scarcely had he impacted the stone before Emara had healed his cracked bones. She shot his pain like an arrow into the very yanai shield that had rebuffed him, sharpening it into an invisible lance and slamming it through the barrier with a deafening crack. Ivanora screamed again behind Emara, her control slipping as the pain deepened its claws into her.

Sweat slicked Emara’s skin as she gathered the pain once again. From Aza and Shad and Makeo still on the floor, from the brave souls fighting the Lost tooth and nail. She pulled it to her, fashioned it into a spear of yanaa, and heaved.

A shattering explosion rocked the room like one great crash of thunder, and the yanai barrier splintered into a million translucent shards.

“Now, Zephyr!” Emara shouted, her breath coming ragged as the strain pulled at her. “Idriel is exposed. ”

Rising from the floor, Zephyr met her gaze before igniting his long sword in a wash of fire. He rushed toward the hulking demon god, the one that had brought their land to its knees, dying in darkness, the one that’d tried to erase them all.

Zephyr raised his sword, and Idriel bellowed one last time. Defiant to the end.

Then a body slammed into Emara from behind. “Stop, Dragon Heir!”

An arm hooked around Emara's neck, another wrenching her head to one side. She tried once again to force the pain into Ivanora, but the magus was beyond pain—fueled with rage and something more otherworldly, she gripped Emara tighter.

“Walk away, Dragon Heir,” Ivanora cried. “Douse the flames, or I break your precious Time Heir's neck.”

Emara cursed her own stupidity. Why hadn’t she ended her while she was writhing on the floor? She’d never taken a life before, but this was war, and now her inhibitions had only endangered more lives. Perhaps this was why so many Time Heirs had fallen before her.

Of course, they had to die first, she realized. Because no other Heir could fall until the Time Heir had, and yet, they weren’t the killers here. The thought made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. “Don’t hesitate, Zephyr. This battle is already won, whether I survive it or not.”

“You stupid girl.” She wrenched Emara's head with another painful yank. “Who cares if you kill the beast’s body? We will find another one—a stronger one—to host Idriel. We will never stop.”

Emara shook her head ever so slightly. “Nor will we, Ivanora. Even if you kill me here, another Time Heir will rise in my place. And they will defeat you again and again, as many times as you begin this battle anew, we will finish it.”

As she said the words, she knew it was true. No matter how many times the darkness rose, the Heirs would be there to fight it. Because what was time but a story that repeated itself? That was the gift Odriel had given them. The gift to continue on, to grow and change and forever protect Okarria.

“But at least,” Emara continued, “when I see Bellaphia, I can tell her that we did it, just as she asked. That her sacrifice wasn’t for nothing.”

Ivanora shrieked, her grip tightening on Emara’s neck, cutting off her air. “Her life was never worth yours.” Ivanora's arm crushed against Emara's throat as she struggled to get free, to fill her burning lungs.

“Stop!” Zephyr started toward them, but in two strides, Idriel crashed into him, his spiked claws crushing him into the ground.

Emara tried to reach out to him with her yanaa but found that, choking as she was, she could no more reach him than she could draw breath.

“You don’t know how much I loved her,” Ivanora cried furiously. “Everything I did was for Phia. Everything I do. Without her, this world is a wasteland. Idriel is the only hope to be remade. To conquer death and bring her back.” Ivanora sobbed, and Emara's fingers scrabbled against her pale skin, blood dripping to the floor as she fought Ivanora’s iron strength. “And to think it was you.” The arm squeezed harder in an explosion of pain as Emara wordlessly choked for air, the weariness dragging her eyelids down. Too heavy to fight.

But even as blackness edged her vision, she could’ve sworn she saw a brown hawk circling the hall as she’d seen so many times since she was a girl. And just as it had then, it seemed to speak to her.

Never stop fighting.

Emara gave it her promise in return: never.

That’s when her gaze met Aza’s. Odriel’s Assassin. Though she still knelt on the blood-slicked marble, she held a knife between her fingers and mouthed one word. Left.

“We should’ve cut your throat when you were still crying for your mother’s—”

With one last kick, Emara lurched the slightest bit to the side, and Aza’s knife flew straight and true, nicking Emara’s temple as it buried into one of Ivanora’s black eyes.

The magus’s grip went slack as she screamed, and Emara gasped for breath. But this time, she didn’t waste her chance. Seizing the magus around the middle, she threw her toward Aza. The Shadow Heir lunged across the distance and buried her dagger into the magus’s heart, cutting off her screams at last. Blood gurgled from Ivanora's lips as her body seized, and Aza plunged the dagger in again.

Ivanora's remaining eye went wide, one final breath rattling through her. “There's no death... for Idriel's Children.”

Jaw set and streaked with blood, Aza raised her blade. “I can try harder.” With another slash, Ivanora's head toppled from her shoulders—her horrific reign finally ended.

And yet, the battle wasn’t over.

“Ivanora!” Conrad screamed. In his faltering control, the dead scattered from his grip, rushing toward Aza and Emara. Aza lifted her daggers, and Emara realized once again she’d been caught without a weapon. But there was no running this time, not with her yanaa coursing through Aza and Zephyr. So she raised her glowing blue fists.

A howl echoed through the hall, and Makeo was before them, his hulking body glowing strangely green and blood matting his fur as his broadsword whirled. Then Aza was beside him, back to back, cutting through the Lost until the wave of rotting bodies surrounded them.

Beyond, Zephyr cried out again, weaker this time, his flames sputtering beneath the Dead King’s thorned grip. Body trembling, Emara shot what yanaa she had left to Zephyr, bolstering the bones splintering under the demon’s grip and re-inflating his lungs, but when she tried to reflect the pain to the demon, its rotting corpse felt none of it.

Her muscles squeezed with the effort of resisting the huge creature, and even as she directed the pain to the now screaming Conrad, his own Lost already tearing away at him, there was too much.

“Please Idri—” Conrad's words were lost to shrieks as the fingers and blades of his freed puppets hacked away at him. In a wash of blood, he disappeared beneath the mass of furiously churning bodies, his screams finally falling silent.

With Conrad's last breath, the pain she'd been siphoning into him rushed back into Emara. She felt her bones crack with Zephyr’s, the breath crushed from her lungs, her eyes bulging.

Desperately she looked toward Makeo and Aza, forcing the shout between her clenched teeth, “I can’t hold much longer… Zephyr’s dying!”

Makeo’s reddened muzzle turned toward her, and he howled again, his broadsword a steel blur and his body pulsing with jade yanaa. But where was Aza? Had she fallen?

No. She couldn’t have. Not with Emara still standing. She was here somewhere; Emara could feel her. Alive. And if she was alive, and Zephyr and Emara too, there was hope. There were three of them and one demon corpse king.

Emara just had to trust her.

The Dead King smashed Zephyr into the ground once more, and Emara fell to her knees. With Conrad now dead, there was nowhere else for the pain to go, and she took it within her. The agony of being shattered and broken ripped through her body, but Zephyr was still strong. He could break free. He had to.

Another blow, and Emara fell face forward to the ground. Something warm trickled out of the side of her mouth, and the iron-tang of blood coated her tongue. Still, even with her body crumbling, she reached for each of them: Makeo, Zephyr, Aza… Zephyr, Aza… Zephyr.

Something pierced Zephyr’s stomach, and Emara screamed, long and loud, the pain blotting out all else. The pain of death. A pain she couldn’t overcome. She’d fallen to the cold floor, but she’d given it her all. It was up to the others now.

For a moment, she thought of her mother’s words. You must survive. At all costs.

But that had been wrong. She was here to live, not just survive.

To fight, with her brother and sister—the Dragon and Shadow at her side.

As her vision blackened and the agony ripped through her thoughts, it could not rob her of the satisfaction, of the pride, that she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Doing what she’d been made to do.

A deeper bellow vibrated through the stone floor beneath her, and Emara turned to see Aza, chest heaving and body bent, blood smeared on her face and her black sword held high. Beside her, the Dead King’s arm lay separated from his body, and Zephyr kicked the hand away. He staggered, his wounds only half-healed, but alive, and standing.

Aza dodged Idriel’s last swipe before darting in and dragging her huge obsidian sword across its stitched neck. The demon's head rolled to the floor, but still, the last of its grotesque Lost creations surged toward Aza, her chest heaving and shoulders folding with fatigue. Idriel's rotting fingers stretched for its head, and Aza turned from the remaining horde to hack at its arm—its body twitching with every blow.

“Odriel take it!” Aza swore. “It's not dying!”

“Everyone get down!” Zephyr bellowed.

Aza fell to the blood-slicked marble, and Makeo slid to his stomach, echoing Zephyr’s call. “On the floor!”

The remaining captives dropped low just as Zephyr lifted his hand, and a sheet of fire unfurled through the room. Emara watched the blaze billow above her, the flames hot against her cheeks as they crackled through the head of every Lost while the Dead King writhed on the dais. The inferno intensified, and with one final shriek, the demon crumbled into ash at last.

Emara’s eyes flashed open, and she instantly regretted it, wincing as pain lashed every pore of her body. For a moment, she didn’t recognize the voice calling her name.

Aza Thane’s pale, bloody face loomed over hers, blurring in and out of focus. “Emara, are you still with us?”

“Yes.” Emara tensed her muscles, slowly sitting up. “But unless someone is going to die in the next five seconds, I don’t think I could heal a scratch.”

In a breath, Aza threw her arms around Emara and folded her into her chest. “Thank you, Emara. Thank you so much.” She sobbed into Emara’s shoulder, her words coming out in a muffled rush. “I’ve been waiting a decade to make things right, and it never would’ve been possible without you. I’m sorry I had to ask, and I’m sorry I dragged you here, but you did it. I don’t know how, but you did it.” Aza pulled away, the tears streaming along the long scar down her cheek.

Emara squeezed her hand tightly, the realization of it hitting her in a euphoric wave. “We did it, Aza. All of us.” She looked for Shad’s body, a sudden grief overwhelming her. She’d lost track of him in the battle. How could she have lost him? If not for him, this would never have happened. He was the thread she was supposed to hold onto. “But… I wasn’t… where is… What happened to Shad?”

Aza shook her head, her expression crumpling with grief as the tears continued to flow. “Rendaro fell too… and so many others.” She gazed out across the room, where captives huddled in small groups in the calamity of corpses and blood. “We will honor them.”

Amidst the almost reverent quiet, Makeo limped toward them with Zephyr’s arm thrown around his bare shoulder. Emara’s eyes caught on them, not quite absorbing Makeo’s blond hair and smooth jaw, until her eyes flew wide and she turned back to Aza, her whisper echoing in the nearly silent hall. “The curse, it’s broken.”

“It is?” Aza looked up at Makeo, hopeful tears filling her eyes.

An exhausted smile crossed his face as his gaze met hers. “It is at last.”

“I... that's...” Another sob shook Aza's shoulders, and she put a trembling hand on her stomach, her terrified gaze asking the silent question. “And…?”

Emara gripped her hand, letting a single strand of yanaa reach out to the new life just starting in Aza’s belly, and she nodded, a full grin spreading across her face. “Perfectly healthy.”

“You’re sure?” Aza asked.

Emara couldn’t have smiled any bigger, the joy of the moment bringing tears to her eyes. “A strong young Shadow Heir. I can already feel her yanaa.”

Makeo and Zephyr stopped before them, gazing from one crying woman to the other with alarmed confusion.

Zephyr pulled away from Makeo, his face hardening as if readying for battle again. “What’s wrong?”

Aza shook her head, barely able to contain her sobs. “I was... but she’s... Thank Odriel, she’s...”

Makeo knelt, taking in Emara’s relieved smile and then turning to Aza, his face soft as he took her hand. “Who, Aze?”

“Keo. I… I’m sorry I kept it from you, but…” Aza took a deep breath, putting one hand on her belly. “We’re going to have a baby.”

For a moment, Zephyr and Makeo stood stunned with identical slack jaws.

Zephyr was the first to react, in a near shout. “You’re with child? And you came here?”

Aza lifted her chin, defiant. “I couldn’t let her grow up in that world.”

Makeo’s emerald gaze flicked to her stomach, running a trembling hand across the long scar on his chest. “Her? A girl?”

Aza nodded, and Makeo’s face broke into a wide grin. He swooped her up, her arms wrapped around his neck as he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. Tears leaked from his eyes as he held her, and Aza was laughing, laughing, laughing. Like a decade of darkness had fallen off of her.

Emara pushed herself to her feet, turning away to give them at least the semblance of privacy.

“Well, Heelo has been asking for a cousin,” Zephyr muttered, wiping a hand over his face, a smile lingering there beneath the sheen of pain. Then he looked at Emara, shaking his head in disbelief once more. “And Ioni Rao.”

“It’s Emara Rao now.” Emara held out her hand. “But it’s good to see you again, Zephyr.”

“Emara, you saved my life.” Zephyr bypassed the hand and wrapped Emara in a tight hug, startling a laugh out of her. “I’d always hoped we’d find you well, but you’ve grown more powerful than I ever could’ve dreamed.” He pulled away, sweeping his thick brown hair away from his dirt-streaked face. “This truly is a day of miracles.”

Emara could only offer a bittersweet smile, because he was right. It was a day of miracles… Her gaze drifted to where Shad’s body should’ve been.