I picture the thread knotted tighter and tighter. The new strength builds, and I feel it, hot and brutal, as it gathers in my hands.
I let it go.
Heat flares in my chest then spreads through my body in a feverish rush. I open my eyes and press my hands deep into the mud. Light blooms at my palms. I am the sun. I am a wildfire. Around me, the lines of the sigil ignite into golden brilliance. It spreads along the shore until all the earth glows.
I can do this. I will do this. I’ll send my magic into the darkness and mend it all.
The Corruption starts to writhe. I feel its fury, its hunger. It tries to fight me. I push; it pushes back. I dig my hands deeper into the ground. The power burns and burns and burns. The hollow, bereft feeling grows steadily, too, and the carved-out place within me fills with an unbearable ache. It hurts. I bite my lip, hard. My nose starts to bleed.
I can do this. I can do this.
The ground gives a hideous, endless shudder. Then all goes still. I turn around, a disbelieving laugh caught in my throat. Clover and Arien lift their hands from the sigil, smiling with hesitant relief. Beyond them, under the trees, Rowan and Florence have gotten to their feet. Hope fills me as I look back out across the shore.
It’s mended.
The ground is smooth earth and scattered pebbles; the forest is pale, silken bark and new leaves fluttering against the star-specked sky. The water, rippling in the moonlight, is clear. I put a tentative hand back against the mended earth. It’s done.
I want to sink to the ground and curl up and never move.
But then a strange, sharp pull jolts against my ribs. I stagger, nearly falling, as the earth turns darker and darker beneath my hand. Thin rivulets of shadow spread out around me, up toward the forest, and back down into the lake. There’s a tremor, and then—a wound opens, tearing through the ground from my hands all the way to the edge of the water.
I hear Clover cry out, and Arien takes a step across the sigil. I throw out my hand to stop him. “No! Don’t come close. It might—”
He stumbles back. I bend down and shove my hands into the ground. The Corruption rises quickly, wrapping around me until my wrists are snared. It tightens and tightens, a painful, crushing grip. The light of my magic flares up from beneath the mud. The sigil burns brightly, the intricate lines brilliant gold against the blackened earth.
I close my eyes and force all my weight against the ground. My heart beats desperately against my ribs. The world is too bright, too hot.
From far off comes the heavy sound of footsteps. Rowan runs to me, his boots smearing the sigil, fracturing the spell. Light scatters as the lines break apart. He grabs my shoulder. “Leta, you can’t do this. You can’t—”
He cuts off to a sudden, choked silence.
The ground shudders and he shudders. Blood stains the corners of his eyes. He blinks, and it spreads across his irises until they’re crimson. At his throat the darkness writhes, the shadows unfold. I see him try to fight it: his teeth clenched, his breath fast. His scars tear open, and blackened water streams out from the wounds.
And then, just like in the garden, he’s gone.
My hands are trapped by the earth, and I can’t get free. I hiss out a sharp, pained cry as he grabs my wrist. I try to pull loose, but he tightens his hold on me. “Rowan, fight it—”
But he can’t; he’s caught; he’s lost. I close my eyes and try to feel the magic strung between us. I picture the thread of power held tight in my hands. I pull on the lingering magic and try to subdue him, just like I did before.
“Lie still, lie still.” The words come out like a chant. “Quiet, stay quiet.”
Blood runs from my nose as the crescent mark on my palm beats and beats. The whole world is heat and hurt and power. My power. The thread of magic wants to slip from my grasp. But I hold it tight.
I pull and pull and pull.
Rowan lets go of me and falls to his knees with a gasp. He has a hand at his throat. He takes another ragged breath. Then his eyes blink clear. “Leta, you have to stop the ritual.”
“I can’t.” My voice sticks on the edge of a sob. “If I stop, it will only get worse.”
He spits out a mouthful of ink-dark water. “Let it claim me—I don’t care. I won’t let you be hurt.”
I shake my head, tears spilling from my eyes. I can’t let go. The Corruption is quiet; I have it held, have Rowan held. But the poison isn’t gone. I look down into the open ground, that endless, depthless dark. I was supposed to be able to mend it.
Then I understand.
This darkness before me isn’t a wound. It’s a path.