Page 139 of On Brutal Thrones

I’m not going to let it happen.

Magnus throws out one hand.

I release the roots and dive aside.

Magic tears past my shoulder close enough to heat my skin. I hit the ground, roll, and come up on one knee as Thorian attacks him again.

Magnus barely gets his golden sword up in time. The weapons collide… except they don't. The instant Magnus's blade meets Thorian's, gold ripples along its length. Then the sword becomes a flower.

For half a heartbeat, no one moves. A ridiculous yellow blossom trembles in Magnus's hand.

“What?” Magnus says, shock in his voice.

Thorian's sword slices through it, and the flower head tumbles onto the black rock.

Across the ledge, Antone swears as his sword turns into a flower too. Halwin stares at what has become of his own stolen golden weapon. They understand at the same time I do. The weapons were a trick of the gods. A trap. And they walked right into it.

Our weapons were a gift from Soryn. To help us.

Thorian drives his boot into Magnus's back, and the warlock hits the ground face-first. His chin cracks against the rock, and blood splatters black stone.

To my right, Talon kicks Antone's legs out from beneath him. Fenric tears Halwin free of my roots only to slam him back against the ground.

For the first time since the Vultures appeared in these Trials, they aren't attacking. They're losing.

Thorian plants a boot between Magnus's shoulders, and he lifts his head. His gaze finds mine. There's hatred in it. No surrender. No regret. No fear that makes me see another person trapped in the same terrible Trials we are.

Just hatred.

“You think this changes anything?” Blood coats Magnus’s teeth when he smiles. “Valtor promised us victory. Your sister is ours.”

No.

She isn't.

Thorian looks at me. He doesn't ask permission. He doesn't need it.

I know what happens if we walk away. I know what Magnus has done every single time we've given him another chance to disappear. He comes back. He attacks again. And this time, we need to end it. We need to never let these warlocks hurt us again. To ensure they can’t win.

This is necessary.

I meet Thorian's eyes and give the smallest nod, and his sword falls. Magnus doesn't even have time to scream. And then, the light in his eyes dies.

Across the ledge, Talon finishes Antone. His sword drives into the warlock’s chest, cutting off whatever sound Antone was trying to make. Talon yanks the blade free, and Antone crumples onto the black rock, blood spreading beneath him. Talon stands over him, breathing hard, then looks toward Fenric.

Halwin is barely conscious, one hand pressed weakly against his ruined arm. Fenric stands above him with both hands wrapped around his spear. He hesitates for only a heartbeat. I see the reluctance cross his face, but neither of us needs to say what we already know. We’ve spared the Vultures before. We’ve run from them, left them behind, given them every opportunity to stop coming after us. They never have. We can’t leave even one of them alive with the Spire this close. Fenric’s expression hardens, and he drives the spear down into Halwin’s heart. The warlock’s body jerks once, then goes still.

Then it's quiet, but not silent. The storm still howls. Fire still roars from the cracks below. Thunder still rolls through the mountain. But the Vultures are dead.

I stare at Magnus, but I don't feel guilty. I don't feel relieved either. I just feel finished.

They tried to kill us. They attacked us while we slept. They stole our weapons. They would have taken Lyra if they reached the Spire first, and every time we survived them, they came back to try again.

There was no leaving them behind this time.

Talon wipes his blade against the remains of Antone’s robes. “That’s that.”

Fenric looks down at the steel spear in his hand. “The golden weapons were a trap, weren’t they?”