I had never been hit with Nura’s magic so directly. Even though I braced myself, it still took my breath away. To describe the sensation that flooded over me as “fear” would be like describing a monsoon as a drizzle.
One blink, and I was looking at Kira’s face as she fell against the floor of her shed, fire tearing up her clothing, her hair.
I was hearing Reshaye’s whisper, {Now you have no one but me.}
I didn’t know whether the floor beneath my feet was the stone of the Scar or the bloodstained tile of my family’s estate. I didn’t know whether the flames at my hands were reaching towards Nura, or towards my siblings, or towards the people who had lived in Sarlazai. My mental walls, meticulously crafted, tore apart like paper.
Still, I pushed forward, resisting the urge to fall to my knees. Down here, my magic was rawer, brighter, hotter. Our power collided in a burst so wild that it consumed us both, and seconds later, we were both flung against opposite walls of the ravine.
My breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead. Through the warping mist of the Scar, Nura and I looked at each other, wide-eyed — as if we had both surprised ourselves with the extent of our power.
I flexed my hands, coaxing magic back to my fingertips.
And then, we began again.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Max
I was standing in my bedroom at my family’s estate. Look, Max. Just came out of its silk today. Kira’s hands held out a glass box. A little red butterfly was within it. Its wings were on fire. I looked up and Kira’s face was rotting.
No.
I was in the Scar, fighting for my life, for Tisaanah’s life, for a title I didn’t even want. The world shook as my back slammed against the wall. No time to catch my breath. No time to hesitate. I fell back, dodging Nura’s next strike, and surging towards her.
No.
I was in Sarlazai. Nura was looking up at me. I trusted her. I loved her. If they want to shit in their own beds, they can lie in it.
{You do always try so hard.}
No.
I was leaning over Nura, our magics roaring around us both, light and darkness and fire and fear threatening to smother each other out. She was blocking me with a blade — but my staff was more powerful. Her eyes were wide, and through her anger, her lethal determination, I caught a glimpse of fear. Her stance buckled.
For a moment, I could see an opening. One strike to her throat. I was fast enough. I could make it.
But it was a lethal shot.
I hesitated. Went for her shoulder instead of her neck. Too slow. She countered.
No.
I was in my old apartment in the wake of Sarlazai, the wake of my family’s deaths. I was drowning, drowning in grief and anger and rage. Nura was there. She peeled her clothes off. Her body was decimated, covered in burn scars, disfigured. She crawled over me and whispered in my ear, This is what you do.
No.
Yes. And you think you can rule? You have destroyed everything you’ve ever touched.
Nura’s scars beneath my hands.
Tisaanah’s scars.
Atraclius’s warped, bloody glasses.
Everything you’ve ever loved.
The burning butterfly. Tisaanah’s face as she waved to me, the Towers’ doors closing over her goodbye.
No.
No.
I was here. Here, in the Scar. Fighting for the title of Arch Commandant. Fighting for everything.
Magic was so thick in the air that it burned my eyes, my skin. Nura’s shields against the fire that surrounded us were beginning to wear down — her cheeks were red and slick with sweat, little strands of her hair singed. If I had imagined the end of the world, I might have thought it would look something like this, with every familiar grounding force of the earth stripped away in favor of nothing but wild, uncontrolled destruction.
I lunged, she dodged, I pivoted. Struck, just enough for her to fall. But I was unstable — she brought us both down. She was on top of me, her knife clutched in one hand and magic crackling at the other. My staff flew from my grasp. I could have called it back to me with a single thread of magic. I didn’t. Just as Nura didn’t use her knife. We were far past the point of steel. Past pretending that those weapons mattered.
My own memories were unraveling, Nura’s magic tearing apart the fabric of my mind, but through nothing but force of will I staved her off. Her eyes were bright and glistening.
I was still holding back.
We both knew it.
She tugged on an old memory, one that made us both wince. A lonely little girl and an ill-tempered little boy, hiding from a party. I’ll just call you Max.
“I can win,” I said. “You know that I will.”
“Then do it,” she ground out, through clenched teeth.
Sammerin’s warning rang out in the back of my head.
“I don’t want to win that way,” I said. The world had fallen away. There was nothing around us but our magic, and the magic of the Scar. “Yield, and this is done.”
It was like talking to the winds of a hurricane. I didn’t know why I bothered. There was only the faintest glimmer of hesitation on her face. Then raw fury drowned any remaining remnants of our old fond memories.
“No,” she whispered.
And then the world fell apart.
I didn’t have a name for what she did, then. My head felt like it had been split like an egg, memories pouring out like runny yolk. I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Through the fog and the pain, I saw Nura’s blood running down her arm. Saw a crushed glass bottle in her hand.
I knew Nura’s magic. She was powerful. But this — this was something else. This was worse. How far had
