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Another shifts his spear to counter my attempt to slip past. “Your people require their anchor. Let us finish what we came here to do.”

So this is Nyctarian’s final command.

Kill the stag. Preserve the Silver King.

“You will not decide my duty for me.”

“Then forgive us for doing what you will not.”

I lunge forward, Silver magic erupting from my outstretched hand. The ground beneath two guards turns to ice, making their footing treacherous. One slips, his spear spinning from his hand. The other maintains his balance but hesitates, leaving himself vulnerable.

I push through, my blade singing through the air toward Kelaros’s exposed throat. He doesn’t flinch or retreat, greeting my approach with cold amusement.

My blade meets invisible resistance inches from his skin. The air itself seems to solidify, refusing me passage. Kelaros’s amusement deepens.

“I’ve been consuming the court for months, Silver Flame,” he explains, gesturing to the crystalline veins now visible beneath his skin. “Did you think I came unprepared for you?”

The court trembles around us, the crystal floor buckling as fissures spread in all directions. Amalia staggers toward the stag.

“Theron!” Her cry carries such anguish it freezes me in place. “I can’t hold it!”

Silver magic erupts from my hands with new purpose, shifting from Kelaros to the floor beneath the guards. Ice spreads in a widening circle, clearing a path toward Amalia. Two guards slip and fall, their armor clanging across the crystal. A third maintains his balance long enough to thrust his spear toward my chest.

Thalindor’s mirror-shield deflects the blow, the impact sending vibrations up my arm where our shoulders connect. Without a word, he covers my advance, his centuries of loyal service distilled into this moment of perfect protection.

But we are too late.

The hollow stag collapses under the relentless assault, crystal shards cascading from its body with each movement. Its once-proud antlers splinter, long crystalline points crashing to the ground.

The creature turns its empty eye sockets toward Amalia one final time, a silent communication passing between them that I cannot interpret. Then its massive skull drops with the ring of a death knell.

Cracks spread outward from the point of impact, racing along the stag’s body in fractal patterns. Light bleeds from these fissures as unconstrained power seeks to escape.

“Yes,” Kelaros breathes, stepping closer to the dying guardian. His hands reach toward the stag’s exposed ribcage where the Opal core pulses with increasing urgency.

“Stop!” I roar.

Two guards nearest me freeze in place, centuries of conditioning to royal command overriding their orders. But those closest to Kelaros continue their assault, driving their light weapons deeper into the stag’s failing body.

The creature’s chest cavity splits open wider, revealing the true prize within. The heart of the Opal Court pulses with blinding intensity, a perfect sphere of pure Opal energy no larger than my fist, yet containing power beyond comprehension.

Amalia reaches the stag before Kelaros can claim his prize. She plants both hands on the creature’s crystalline flesh and pours her magic into it. For a moment, the fractures in the stag’s form slow their spread, the light within dimming to a steadier glow.

“Hold on,” she whispers to the ancient guardian. “We can still⁠—”

A guard drives his light weapon through the stag’s throat, severing whatever connection formed between creature and woman. The impact throws Amalia backward, and she lands hard enough to drive the breath from her lungs.

Her scream pierces the grove, and echoing agony tears through me, racing along my veins in response to her suffering. Then the court’s power surges uncontrolled through her transformed body, the force of it crashing through our connection.

The stag shatters.

There is no other word for the total structural failure that occurs. Its entire crystalline form disintegrates into thousands of glittering fragments. Crystal dust fills the air, burning my lungs and forcing tears down my cheeks.

Above the ruin of the guardian, its Opal core remains intact, detached from its destroyed vessel. The sphere floats upward, pulsing with ancient power, now unclaimed and dangerous. Light radiates outward in expanding waves, each pulse stronger than the last.

The crystal trees surrounding our grove warp and twist, rigid trunks softening and slumping into molten shapes. The impossible liquid sky ripples with increasing frequency, colors inverting then bleeding into one another.

Through the haze of dust and magic, Amalia struggles to her knees. Her transformation is complete now, little of her human form remaining beneath the court’s crystalline remake.