Raife shot that arrow at Rayghast, who used another terrestrial wave to block it. Rayghast then sent a pulse through the earth. Dirt and rock rippled at Raife’s feet, wrapping around his ankles, shackling him there.
Ruenen used the momentary distraction to attack, swinging downwards. Rayghast was quick, though. He blocked, and Ruenen swung again. Rayghast parried, then swung, but winced as his injured leg twisted beneath him.
A flaming arrow pierced straight through Rayghast’s right shoulder. The black, necrotic flesh burned. Dark magic and black blood bled from the hole.
For the briefest of moments, Rayghast froze. A flicker of surprise crossed his face. Then he tore the arrow from his shoulder with a snarl. Ruenen took advantage of the pause and flung himself recklessly at the king.
Rayghast grabbed Ruenen by the throat. His fingers tightened.
Ruenen expected black flames to burn him, encompass him, but he felt nothing besides the desperate need to breathe.
Concern flashed across Rayghast’s face. Whatever was supposed to happen when he touched Ruenen’s flesh hadn’t occurred.
Dark magic abandoned him. It bled from the king’s body, dripping, slick as oil, onto the grass, and disappeared back beneath the soil.
With his final ounce of strength, Ruenen kicked Rayghast’s injured knee.
The king stumbled; fingers loosened their grip.
Ruenen shoved his sword into Rayghast’s stomach.
The king’s eyes flared open. He growled into Ruenen’s face. Ruenen pushed the blade deeper. He twisted it, hoping to catch all the internal organs.
Rayghast staggered backwards; the sword dislodged from his wound. He fell to the ground, lacing his fingers amongst the grass.
“Come to me,” he ordered through clenched teeth.
But the magic didn’t come.
“Heal me,” Rayghast bellowed at the dirt. Desperation and sweat glistened on his face. The king roared, tearing blades of grass from the ground with his blackened fingers. Now he was just a man.
Ruenen’s throat burned. He could barely suck down air. Blurry white dots popped into his vision. His knuckles stalled, hovering before knocking at death’s door.
Finish it, Master Chongan’s voice told him.
Dragging his sword across the ground, Ruenen went to Rayghast’s side. The king glared up at him with a sneer.
“I win,” Ruenen whispered, then promptly cut off Rayghast’s head.
As Rayghast’s head rolled one direction, and his body keeled to the other, Ruenen’s sword clattered to the ground.
The odds had always been stacked against him, but he’d won. No more running. No more bloodshed. No monster to haunt his nightmares. Ruenen had finally vanquished his predator.
The ominous, dark clouds parted above him, and sunlight dappled the landscape of his Nevandia. Strength left him, and Ruenen fell backwards.
He could die now. He’d saved his people. He’d done what he set out to do. He’d avenged Amsco and Nori, the Chongan family . . . his parents.
He could happily join Marai in the Underworld.
He closed his eyes and saw her.
She stood on the precipice of light, surrounded by a halo of radiance. White blonde hair flowed around her in the temperate breeze. She extended her pale hand and smiled.
Ruenen was ready. He reached out his hand, expecting to feel those callused, strong fingers entwine with his. But instead, he felt warmth. Light, yes, but warmth that sucked away the pain from his side. He could almost feel the organs, tissues, veins, and skin meld back together.
Then Marai grew farther and farther away. She was leaving him . . . or he was leaving her.
No! I want to stay with you!
But Marai smiled with pride as Ruenen returned to earth.
Chapter 37
Marai
She was dead.
Marai lay somewhere between worlds, bathed in golden-white light.
Her body was leaden. Unmovable. Her voice trapped within. It mattered not—she couldn’t open her jaw, anyways.
Sometimes, she felt hands; warm and gentle. They lifted her head and poured liquid down her throat. A wet cloth was draped across her forehead. Her limbs were sponged off.
Sometimes, she heard voices. Muffled, distant, quiet. They sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place them.
Her mind was full of cotton. Or sludge too difficult to traverse.
If she gathered her strength to crack open an eyelid, she saw slivers of blurry shapes and outlines. Nothing recognizable. But the effort was unsustainable and costly. The world was too bright. Too colorful. Her eyes burned. Sounds scraped against her eardrums. Feet on stone. The shuffle of clothing against skin. Water being poured into a cup. All as loud as a thunderstorm.
