Anton’s Grace thrummed all around Jude. He hadn’t felt it this strongly since that day in the lighthouse—in the place they stood now—when Anton’s Grace had first called out to him.
But it wasn’t Jude that Anton was calling to now. It was this power, this ancient thing inside of him. The Sacred Word. Coaxing it, little by little, from where it hid within Jude’s esha.
The storm raged around them, as merciless and unyielding as the power that cleaved from Jude’s esha.
It hurt. It was not the scorching pain of Godfire, but something deeper, more visceral. Every part of Jude, his bones and his skin and his blood, vibrated at a different frequency. He feared he would eventually come apart, his body trembling into dust, into nothing.
And through it all, Jude felt Anton’s hands clenched in his own, like if he could hold on tight enough, Jude would stay.
It’s all I want, Jude thought desperately.
It would kill Anton to do this. Jude had tried to spare him that pain, at least. He’d failed at that, too.
And now, here, this was the end. The path had run out. And Jude couldn’t let go.
In spite of his decision, in spite of everything, he wanted to live. Some deep, central part of himself resisted the call of Anton’s Grace. It fought against the Sacred Word. It fought to keep living.
“Stop!”
At first, Jude thought he imagined the voice calling out. That it was just a manifestation of his own heart, crying out for deliverance.
But then he heard it again.
“Stop!”
Instinctively, Jude stumbled back, his eyes blinking open to find Anton’s face staring at him, shock lighting his dark eyes, his cheeks wet with tears and rain. The silver-forked sky lit up around them.
“Jude! Anton!”
Jude startled at the sound of more than one voice calling out to them. And there, over Anton’s shoulder, through the sheets of falling rain, Jude caught sight of them. Hassan, Khepri, Hector, Ephyra, and Illya all sprinted toward them, waving their arms and shouting across the barren rock.
But before Jude could make sense of their presence, Anton let out a choked sob and collapsed to his knees.
“Anton!” Jude crouched beside him, hands hovering over his shoulders.
Anton just shook his head, trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Jude, I’m so sorry.”
Hassan skidded to a stop, doubling over in front of them with his hands on his knees as Khepri slowed beside him.
Jude reached for Hassan instinctively. “Prince Hassan, what—”
“You don’t have to do this,” Hassan huffed. “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself. There’s another way.”
Everything seemed to freeze for a moment. Jude could only hear the wind, howling around them, echoing the rush of blood in his ears.
And then Anton launched to his feet, seizing Hassan with both hands.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice full of steel.
“Lethia,” Hassan said at once. “She knew that Pallas killed the Prophets. And she knew why. Pallas wanted to stop the Prophets from creating more of them. More Prophets.”
“You mean…” Anton trailed off, his grip going slack. “You mean I could make more Prophets?”
Hassan nodded. “It took Seven Prophets to defeat the god.” He spread his arms as thunder shook the sky. “We can defeat the god.”
Jude swept his gaze over the seven of them, understanding, at once, what Hassan wanted them all to do. His chest felt tight.
“How do you know Lethia wasn’t lying?” he asked. “And even if it is the truth, how do we know that it’s possible to create more Prophets? Maybe they failed. Or maybe—”
“If there’s a chance,” Hassan said fervently. “If there’s a hope. We have to try.”
Hassan didn’t understand. They had tried. They had held fast to hope. And every time, they’d watched as it was trampled underfoot. Every time, Jude’s fate became more painful to accept.
Now they stood at the brink of the end of the world, and no matter how hard they tried, no matter how much they hoped, they couldn’t deny destiny.
“It’s too late,” Jude heard himself say in a hollow voice.
Hector’s expression flashed with anger. Ephyra and Illya hesitated a few feet behind him.
Lightning struck down into the sea in a violent burst.
“The god is already here,” Jude said in a stronger voice. “And the longer we delay, the more people will suffer. We don’t even know how to do what you’re suggesting.”
“But I can find out,” Anton said quietly. His eyes were on Jude, dark and full of challenge. “The Wanderer showed me how to scry into the past. Maybe I can see what they tried to do. And maybe I can finish what they started. We can finish what they started. But only if—only if you’re all willing.”
He looked around at the others.
“No one ever asked me,” Anton said. “No one gave me a choice. So I’m asking you. All of you. You get to choose.”
Everyone was silent for a long moment.
Hector was the first to speak. “Of course my answer is yes.”
“So’s mine,” Khepri said.
Hassan nodded. “Me too.”
“None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for me,” Ephyra said. “So if I can save one person—if I can help save Jude, then I’m in.”
Anton looked at Illya.
“You told me to stop trying to redeem myself in your eyes,” Illya said. “So don’t take this as an attempt to earn your forgiveness. But yes, sure, why not? Let’s save the world.”
“Thank you,” Anton said. He looked at Jude. “It’s your choice, too, Jude. I won’t do this if you don’t agree.”
Jude couldn’t speak for a moment. He wanted, more than anything, to say yes. But he didn’t want the others to put themselves in danger for him. Didn’t want Anton to risk himself more than he already was.
“We can’t,” he said, his voice breaking. He sounded desperate. He sounded like he was asking. “We—”
“I had a vision,” Anton said abruptly. “Or … I think it was vision. I saw … I saw you. And me. Under the stars, in a garden … together. I saw the life we could’ve had.”
It felt like Anton had reached inside Jude’s chest and tore out his heart. He could only stare at Anton. He wanted to know everything he’d seen.
And he knew that if he did, it would destroy him.
Anton was trembling, his lips pale blue from the cold rain that fell around them. “What if it was real? What if it was our future?”
“It wasn’t,” Jude said, too sharply. “You know that. You know we don’t have a—a future.”
Jude’s heart pounded, that same innermost part of himself warring against his words. It was a part of him that was deeper than thought, deeper than emotion. It was pure will.
Anton reached for him, laying a cold palm against Jude’s cheek. “But what if we could?”
His gaze held on Jude’s, and Jude felt it reach behind his ribs and brush against the tender thing that beat within his chest. Jude stared back, transfixed by those eyes, that face, the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose, so dear to Jude, his heart’s true north.
Bet on me, Anton had said once.
He remembered standing on the parapet of the lighthouse as it fell. Remembered leaping after Anton. Remembered kissing him above the river in Endarrion. Remembered taking his hand and slipping away from the Paladin Guard.
He took Anton’s hand once again, moving it from his face and drawing the soft underside of Anton’s wrist to his lips. Anton’s answering smile was like the rising sun.
It was simple. It always had been.
There was no place Anton could go that Jude would not follow.