I nodded despite the tightness in my throat.
The Angel went on, “We did not go willingly into the Stone Realm all those centuries ago. My kind—we are quite literallymadeof the ether, Ophelia. We are meant to be as powerful as a god, not bow to one. We had always hated being beneath the Warrior God’s thumb—sought ways out for centuries following their war—but once we were tricked into sacrificing our powerand trapped with him, we quickly learned that the best way out was to kneel. To work from the shadows to undermine his progress.”
Was that not precisely what I’d intended to do with Echnid? If only I had known of the Angels motives earlier, perhaps we could have been a team.
For now, their goals aligned with the warriors. They truly had been trying to get us here tonight—wanted to see us victorious. Everything they’d done had been for their cause.
Bant attacking Banix was to push the Engrossians to aid the Mystiques. Whoever left that book for Malakai wanted us to know of other realms. Even Valyrie’s frivolous shopping in Damenal—buying the tapestry woven with magic and telling me of the legend of the gryphons it was made to honor—had been a hint.
Thorn distracted Echnid tonight by forming an army to stand before him, though it was through horrendous means, but his mind was too far gone to know the difference beyond meeting his Angelic cause.
They’d ravaged the city to disguise their true motives until the time was right.
And Xenique had dropped the barrier to allow them all here tonight. To begin the process when the timing was most advantageous.
They’d orchestrated it all. Had been the masterminds pulling the strings for centuries.
It had never just been about who Echnid wanted me to become. It was about the sacrifice the Angels needed me to pose, as well.
“Damien,” I whispered as a tear streaked down my cheek. He moved to my side, looking out over the melee. “I think I hate you all for letting me hope there was a way out.”
“I know,” he said.
“But I am happy we are on the same side tonight.”
A soft silence. “I am, too, Chosen Child.”
A sob lodged in my throat. “When you gather the others, do not tell them,” I said, one final request for the being that had ruined my life. He nodded in acceptance. “And make sure you bring the fae male.”
Another nod. And I didn’t let myself harp on the fact that if Damien was telling me the truth of their motives and agreeing to my requests, it meant it really was the end.
Finally, everything made sense. If Echnid kept me beside him, I was safe. He didn’t only long for my power—he longed to keep me alive.
Because now that he was mortal, as the harbinger of the Angelcurse and the restoration of the Balance, if I died, he died, too.
I thought when I escaped him I was done being used. I thought I was free. As I’d found Tolek again and he held me in his comforting, safe embrace, I’d thought we’d beaten the god’s claim over me. That it was me and him, infinitely.
My body is my own.
My mind is my own.
But my life…my life had never been my own.
And I had to bargain that life for a god’s death.
Chapter Eighty
Vale
Fury over Harlen’sdeath clung to my spirit just as his blood clung to my skin, hardening into the armor I now bore vengefully. Like Moirenna, Harlen would not die in vain. If I ensured one thing tonight, it would be that.
His sacrifice fueled every beat of Dynaxtar’s wings as we hovered above the battle. We landed silently on a rooftop, the flat surface allowing my khrysaor to rest for a moment.
After light had exploded in the heart of the plaza, Ophelia and Echnid at its center, the battle had stuttered for a moment, the mist receding, but Dynaxtar flew on, roaring blue flames over the beasts that crawled through the shadows of Xenovia until they were crisped. It wasn’t enough to soothe the rage in my spirit, though. Neither was the onslaught of readings that continued to tunnel through my veins. I needed more.
As we watched, Thorn landed in the center of a crowd below us and aimed his storm cloud Angellight at another group of healthy warriors.
“Dynaxtar!” I shouted over the roar of battle. “Burn.”
