Page 126 of The Blood Rites

He is nowhere to be seen.

“Callen!” I scream, but my voice is lost.

My light rises, useless and frantic, but it cannot cross the distance.

Callen sees it coming, but there is no time left.

He looks at me—

And in his eyes, there is resentment, grief, and an unspoken plea.

Then the moment is gone.

He throws himself over Morwen.

The sword hits with a sound like the world shattering.

It drives through Callen’s back, through bone and lung, pinning him—and Morwen beneath him—to the mirrored ground.

For a second, neither of them moves.

Callen’s body begins to peel apart; ribbons of flesh and bone turn to mist in the half-light. His life force shoots through the sky in a spiral of golden-red light, glittering as it merges with the Mother Shard’s crystalline crown.

Callen is dead.

Marissa shrieks, agony tearing through the sound.

The death counter morphs into the number eight.

I swallow, but it feels like my throat has forgotten how.

Morwen is alive, but the sword has pierced her leg, fixing her to the floor. She screams, high and desperate—the first sound I have ever heard her make. Tears spill freely down her face. But there is no one to help.

I stare at the space where Callen was moments ago. I want to feel sad. But mostly, I feel pity.

How does someone die so selflessly with so much hate still inside him?

I lean into Marissa, holding her close. She is hurt everywhere, but she is still alive. For now.

Above us, the middle ring spins, and I think I see the shadows of Kael and Atheron locked in battle.

But here, at what seems like the bottom of the world, there is only blood and death, and the sickly, heavy knowledge that I am still alive.

I wonder what Kael would see if he looked at me now—someone worth saving, or someone barely holding on.

But I cannot let go.

Not yet.

There is no pause after Callen’s death. The world does not grant us even a moment’s silence for his sacrifice.

The outer ring begins to spin again, fractured chunks tilting wildly, thrown out of alignment. Suddenly, gravity has no meaning. Every sword embedded in the mirror becomes a handle or a deadly snare. Marissa and I grip one together, bracing ourselves as the ground slips away beneath our feet.

Morwen screams in agony, the sound trapped and animal.

My grip on the sword nearly tears the skin from my palm as my other arm dangles uselessly at my side. Marissa’s arms shake, then fail, and for a terrible instant she dangles from my wrist, her pupils blown wide—eyes pleading with me to hold on for her.

“Hold on!” I scream, but she can’t. Her grip slips, fingers tearing free before I can tighten mine. She tumbles outwards, bouncing and sliding across the cracked surface. She hits a jagged cluster of swords, which gouge her thigh and stomach. Blood fans out behind her, a spray of crimson lost on the slick glass.