Page 279 of The Edge of Darkness

Right on time.

All good, I replied.

Excellent. You’re up.

I inhaled deeply, righting my mind and focusing back on the present.

“In case you’re all wondering what else we have in our arsenal that will give us the advantage, besides Niall and Auren . . . You’re looking at it.” I gestured to myself, though I wasn’t thrilled about it.

Somehow, my eyes found their way to Maeson’s, and suddenly, I wasn’t addressing an entire room of guardians. There was only her. And though she’d heard my story a dozen times, I spoke as if she were the sole listener.

“My power is Aether. It came to me through an ancient tangling of witch and fae blood, and has been re-surfacing in random fae, bound by a curse. None have made it past their first few years of life with this power, until me. But that does not make my experience with it any easier. It . . .” I paused, briefly. “It tears me apart little by little the longer it resides within me.”

Maeson’s gaze didn’t falter. It sustained me. It brought forth the inkling of hope that so often got buried beneath my doubts. She knew all my weaknesses now. Knew what the Aether had done to me, who it made me become, and what it might take with it once it was gone. Even so, she remained unwavering.

“The Aether was never meant to be bound, so I am going to be the one to unleash it.”

I didn’t hear if the Dionachs reacted. Didn’t care, really. Eyes the color of moss—and just as soft and welcoming—held mine. Steady, they seemed to say.

I breathed. Swallowed.

“When I release this power, the entity that is attached will be free along with it. There will be chaos, and there will be death.” The warning felt more like a verbal reminder to Maeson than it did the announcement of a war strategy. “I do not know when we will do it, or where, but if you see it taking place, I ask that you lend your sword and shield in protecting us while the spell is cast and the curse is undone.”

I continued holding Maeson’s stare. Held it through the silence that ensued.

Then . . . movement out of the corner of my eye . . .

Slowly, I turned and found the Dionachs placing their fists across their hearts, acknowledging the task, and agreeing to it.

They were acknowledging every task that was being asked of them.

My heart swelled, yet sank at the same time. We did not know any of their names, and yet they were ready to lay down their lives, no questions asked.

“Thank you,” Maeson said quietly in my stead.

Nivelle took that as her cue. “After sundown tonight, we will hold our ritual sacrifice. Until then, ready yourselves and your weapons. I will prepare the death spell. Spread the word that every Dionach is to bring a pouch of fresh ashes to the gathering. Do not come without one.”

In collective agreement, the Dionachs bowed.

Sunlight lit the tent as the entrance flaps suddenly opened, and Remic entered. His tousled silver-white hair hung limp against his black leathers. His face was flushed and freshly slickened with sweat, as if he’d slung out a few more lashes with his sword after my Aura had left. He hadn’t bothered to sheath the weapon. Instead, the tip dragged through the dirt and stone, drawing a line in the earth as he stalked forward.

Every eye followed him as the crowd parted, some dipping their heads as he passed.

I’d never seen him amongst so many of his own kind. He stood taller than most of them, and far more ominous. There had always been an edge to him that set him apart. And seeing him now, in this state . . . He was the embodiment of death, ready to strike down anyone or anything that got in his way.

The soil crunched beneath his boots as he approached and went straight to Auren. He pulled her to him with his empty arm, securing her against his chest. When he buried his face against the top of her head, I knew that whatever was weighing on him was heavy. He closed his eyes as Auren wrapped her arms around his waist and held on.

The other Dionachs watched. Even Silas, who had come to accept Remic and Auren’s bond—regardless of the lack of an official summons—watched, not with jealousy or longing, but with empathy. He knew what Auren meant to Remic, and what Remic meant to her.

When Remic lifted his head, his eyes met Niall’s. A silent query took place between them—mind-speaking.

Then, Remic turned to Nivelle, and said, “Tonight, I wish to join the sacrifice.”

I slid the edge of my sword along the whetstone, finding comfort in the rhythm and the sound of metal slicing against the black quartzite. Of all the blades I had owned throughout my existence, I favored this one simply because of its size and weight. It was a gift from Roirdan—one of the many weapons he’d commissioned for me over the years.

I had always sworn his blacksmith of choice was immortal, because after all this time, the smith’s precision work and craftsmanship never changed. Aremis and I had a theory that all the coin Roirdan had paid was secretly funding some sort of elixir or tonic that extended the smith’s life.

We knew two things for sure: Roirdan kept the smith busy, and the mysterious male never tired of forging.