He had more spellstones in the Cave. If he could make it there …
Propped on his elbows, he tried to drag himself through the dirt to his last chance at life, but the pain made him cry out. He collapsed, breathless, into the grass.
Just as Alistair’s eyes began to droop, his brother sat down beside him, ashy and gray like a dried flower. “I knew I’d find you in the forest.”
Alistair felt no shock at seeing Hendry, even if he was merely a hallucination. Only relief. Alistair leaned his head back as though pressing into a pillow instead of earth, shaking off what had been a terrible dream.
“No place I’d rather die,” Alistair mumbled, his voice lulled and groggy.
Hendry looked up at the crimson night sky. “I don’t think you’re meant to rest quite yet.”
Alistair disagreed. He didn’t deserve to live, having failed Hendry.
“And you?” Alistair asked. Hendry wore the same clothes as he had at the Magpie, though the gray tint to his skin made him look ghostly in comparison to the charcoal color of his T-shirt. “Are you here? Or are you gone?”
“If I was gone, could I be here talking to you?”
Alistair wanted to frown at him—he hated questions answered with questions—but his consciousness was giving out. When he reached out for his brother’s hand, his fingers intertwined with bramble.
ISOBEL MACASLAN
I was never a contender for champion, but I still used to have nightmares of it, as a child. Of my name carved in stone and struck through. Of the inescapable red sky. Of dying violently.
A Tradition of Tragedy
Isobel sprinted through the trees.
As five, ten, fifteen minutes ticked by, she stole glances at the night sky, where the falling star drew closer. It was still impossible to discern where in the forest it would land. She ducked beneath branches and listened for the sound of Finley or Elionor approaching, but she only heard crickets.
He’s more powerful than they are, she thought frantically. And he’s faced them before.
A thunderous boom swept across the forest as the Mirror touched down, not far from where Isobel stood. She raced toward it, then skidded to a halt at the edge of a clearing, where the Mirror floated in the center. It was small, with an ornate gold handle embedded with three spellstones, and if Isobel had her powers, she knew it would glow with the typical red luster of high magick.
Just as she prepared to run toward it, another figure entered the clearing.
Elionor Payne.
You need to beat her there, Isobel screamed internally to herself. But one question was louder, filling her with dread. What happened to Alistair and Finley?
Isobel froze. Elionor didn’t see her—not only was the Cloak camouflaging all but Isobel’s shadow, but Elionor’s gaze was locked on the Mirror. But as Elionor neared, Isobel saw dark stains across her clothes and scarlet smeared across her skin. Blood. And by the way Elionor strutted, it was not she who was wounded.
Alistair.
Isobel tried to convince herself she was wrong, that it might be Finley’s blood, but she knew Alistair wouldn’t have let Elionor go after the Mirror unless he didn’t have a choice. And now she had a choice: leave him behind and grab the Mirror, or save him the way he’d tried to save her.
Isobel ran. Not toward the Mirror—but away from it, back toward Alistair.
When she swore she was close, she slowed down her pace and squinted through the dark thickets of trees, wishing she had her magick to cast some sort of light. It was deathly silent except for the crickets.
“Al?” she whispered again. “Al?”
She tripped over a root and reached for the closest tree to catch herself. But when she turned around, she realized it was no root.
It was a body.
Alistair slouched at the base of an oak tree, his head slumped over. He didn’t move. His already pale skin was several shades paler. One of his hands clutched at his stomach, and Isobel saw he was hurt, just like she’d feared. Alistair had protected her. He’d faced the other champions to secure the Cloak, and she’d rewarded him by abandoning him to be injured—maybe even killed.
“Don’t be dead,” she whispered. She fell to her knees beside him and lifted his head. His eyes were closed. She felt for his pulse. “Don’t die on me, Al.”
She grasped Alistair’s hand. He winced and groaned something unintelligible, reaching forward.
“What is it?” she croaked out, relieved that he was still cognizant enough to communicate.
“Blood,” he rasped. “You needed … blood.” Alistair lifted his hand, and his palm was coated with crimson. Isobel’s heart filled with dread. Whatever curse or weapon had struck him had cut deep into his abdomen.