Ephyra watched, horror turning her body to stone, as Hector fell to the ground.
The god’s words boomed over her, but Ephyra barely heard them. Hassan and Khepri rushed to Hector’s side. But they already knew it was too late—they all did. They had felt the moment Hector’s esha had gone quiet.
The Sacred Word surged through Ephyra like a storm.
You can do this, she thought to herself. For her. For her, you can. For the rest of them.
It was up to her. It had always been up to her. She was the Pale Hand of Death, a reaper of monsters, slayer of humans and gods alike.
And this was the last life she would take.
She stepped toward the god.
It reacted instantly, zeroing in on her.
“DO YOU THINK I WON’T KILL YOU, TOO?”
Ephyra didn’t stop. She walked toward the god, toward its snarling face, a mockery of her kind and loving sister.
“JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE HER SISTER, JUST BECAUSE YOU BROUGHT ME BACK … THESE THINGS WON’T PROTECT YOU ANYMORE, EPHYRA.”
When Ephyra spoke, she spoke to Beru and not the god. “Beru,” she said, her voice threatening to break. “Remember what I told you.”
The god raised its arms. Bolts of lightning crashed down on the barren rock.
Ephyra did not waver. “I will never, ever give up on you.”
“ENOUGH. WE BOTH KNOW YOU WON’T DO THIS. YOU WON’T KILL HER.”
But Ephyra didn’t stop. She drew closer to the god, close enough to touch it.
“I’m sorry, Beru,” she said. “I love you.”
She closed her eyes. She wrapped her fingers around Beru’s wrist, around the black handprint.
The Sacred Word burned through them both.