I can take over. I can talk to the High Priest. Kathera’s voice pressed in around me.
No. I’m handling this. I told her. He came for Oliver.
Very well, she said. I felt her withdraw, the pressure behind my eyes easing.
I took the stairs two at a time.
I knew this was a trap.
That they would be waiting.
What they didn’t know was that I had been waiting since before we ever set foot in this village.
Oliver and Castor followed close behind. The moment we reached the bottom, heavy smoke swallowed my vision. It reeked of incense and something metallic. My stomach curled.
I moved toward the barrier, magic humming under my feet. Heat rolled off it in waves.
“No High Priest I know makes a habit of hiding,” I said—not loud, but enough to carry.
A laugh, cold and close, threaded through the smoke. “Do you know a High Priest who survived you?”
I didn’t answer. A memory still punched through. Incense and age.
I let my senses reach, feeling the air. Thick with smoke, until it thinned, just slightly, to the left, like a passage the fire didn’t quite touch. I closed my eyes and drew in a breath. The smoke filled my lungs, sharp and painful. I released it and ran.
“Stay here,” I told Oliver and Castor.
I pushed through the barrier.
Pain seared across my skin, a burning line that tried to stop me. I didn’t let it. I kept moving. And there he was, shadowed in the smoke.
I hit him like a storm.
I tackled him to the ground, and we rolled. His fist slammed into my face. Pain flared hot and bright. I kept fighting. I drove my knuckles across his cheek, then yanked my dagger from my hip as he tried to pin me.
He swung again. The blow rattled my teeth.
Good.
I spat and struck back. I hooked my leg around his and flipped us so I was on top. He fought to roll me off with brute strength. I drove my forearm into his throat and held him there, steady, waiting for the moment he tried again.
He did.
This time, I let him.
As I dragged my dagger up toward his neck, he went rigid.
Blood bloomed in his chest.
His jaw slackened. He dropped onto me hard, dead weight, driving the air from my lungs.
Behind him stood Milo, Oliver’s brother, gripping a long sword slick with blood. Shock had emptied his face.
“He… he wanted to kill my brother,” Milo said, stumbling over the words. “I… I couldn’t let him.”
I shoved Oliver’s father off me and rose, two fingers to his throat.
Nothing.
Milo made a slight, broken sound.
I looked at him, really looked. The way his hands shook, the way his eyes refused to land anywhere but on the blood.
I knew that look.
“You did what you had to do,” I said. My voice stayed steady. “Breathe.”
He tried. It hitched.
I stepped closer, slow enough not to startle him. “Give me the sword.”
His grip tightened, like he didn’t know how to let go.
“Let go,” I said, quieter now. Not gentler. Certain. “I’ve got it.”
His fingers finally loosened. I took the weapon before it could drop, kept it out of his hands and out of his line of sight.
“Look at me,” I said.
His gaze flicked up, unfocused.
“Good.” It wasn’t praise. It was anchoring. “Stay here with me.” I tilted my head toward the barrier. “Can you disarm it?”
He nodded, swallowing hard, eyes distant.
“Can you do it?” I asked again, softer, not kind. Sure.
He lifted a shaking hand and made a slow gesture, like he was dismissing the wind. The air shifted. The smoke loosened. The barrier’s glow flickered, resisted, and then dimmed.
“Good,” I said again, and meant: stay with me.
Castor and Oliver approached cautiously, still far enough back not to know who had struck the killing blow.
Milo started shaking harder, his hands moving uncontrollably. “I had to.”
I held the sword as if it had always belonged in my hand.
Oliver reached the edge of the cleared air, and his voice slid through the bond.
Did you do it?
Yes, I told him.
You’re lying, he replied, and his eyes flicked to Milo.
Let the village believe it was me. My thought cut sharply. He doesn’t need them to know it was him.
The bond tightened, Oliver’s grief snapping against my ribs.
He went to Milo and set his hands on Milo’s shoulders. Aloud, he said, “I am sorry that Sahora had to do that.”
Milo blinked at him, confused, mouth opening.
Oliver shook his head once, small. “It was Sahora.” He looked at Milo, steady, pleading for him to understand.
Milo swallowed and nodded slowly. “It… it… was Sahora.”
Oliver’s throat bobbed. “We need to…” He swallowed. “We need to have you take over as High Priest.”
Milo shook his head. “No. It’s not supposed to be me…”
“I know,” Oliver said, voice rough. “But it can’t be me anymore. You need to take over.”
“I don’t know how to be High Priest,” Milo whispered, shaking his head too fast, like he could shake the truth away.
“If you end the exile, we’ll stay,” Oliver said. “We’ll help you figure it out.”
Oliver’s eyes met mine. I nodded once.
Milo’s breath stuttered. Then he nodded. “Yes… of course.”
Footsteps thundered above us.
Then people flooded into the arena. Gasps. A small scream. Guards circled, hands on weapons.
I tightened my grip on the sword.
Ready.
Milo stepped forward, hands still shaking. “My father was wrong.”
The guards paused, confused.
“Life…” He swallowed hard. “Life is not meant to be looked at under the scrutiny of what didn’t break us.” His eyes found Oliver, and he nodded once. “I will be taking over as High Priest, as is my duty as his son. Oliver and Sahora are released from all charges. They are welcome in our village, and they will be treated as family.”
One of the guards started forward. “They killed our own. We cannot welcome them.”
More villagers pressed into the arena, forming a ring around us. Someone stepped to the front.
The same man from the Hollowfang trial lifted his hands and made the symbol again. “The last High Priest guided us with fear. It is time for a new High Priest to guide us in a new way.”
Others joined him, one by one, hands rising in the same shape.
Milo’s hands shook. He clasped them together to steady himself.
“You are right,” he said, voice thin but clear. “My father led with fear.” He looked out at the crowd, then at the guards hemming us in. “Fear has only brought us death.”
His voice strengthened, the words finding a spine.
“I don’t know yet what kind of leader I will be.” Murmurs rippled. The guards exchanged wary looks.
“But I do know this.” He lifted his chin. “I will lead with my heart.”