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Amalia kneels across from me, her fingers tracing patterns in her blood that mirror my Silver threads. Without instruction, she works in perfect counterpoint, Opal light flowing where Silver cannot reach.
“How did you know to do that?” I ask, curiosity overriding focus.
A hint of her usual confidence returns, strained but genuine. “Witch magic. Charging objects has always been my specialty, and silver is a preferred medium.”
The shield begins to hum, vibrating with accumulated power. The cracks mend, fragments pulling together and sealing with a mixture of blood and magic.
The corridor behind us fills with the sound of shattering crystal, and Thalindor shifts his stance, bracing for attack.
“Faster,” I command, though neither Amalia nor I need the urging.
The shield’s surface smooths, cracks sealed with veins of Opal-threaded Silver magic. I plant both palms on its surface, channeling the last of my gathered power.
“Think of the Dark Sithe,” I instruct Amalia. “Picture it clearly. Your connection will strengthen the portal.”
“Not the Silver?” she questions.
I shake my head. “It’s too far. The fissure offers an easier escape back to our world.”
“Our world,” she repeats, softer this time. “Doesn’t sound too bad.”
My heart skips as she goes still with concentration, and the shield responds, its surface rippling then clearing to reveal the obsidian walls of Nyctarian’s court.
“Now.” I lift the shield, angling it upright. “Elionn first.”
My brother attempts to protest, but his legs buckle beneath him. He catches himself on my shoulder, his frame lighter than I remember, muscles wasted from months of captivity.
“Save your strength.” I support his weight. “We’ll be right behind you.”
Elionn’s fingers tighten on my arm. “Swear it.”
“On my crown,” I reply, though the words ring empty as they leave my lips.
The mirror chamber pulses with unstable energy, the blooms that survived the chaos beginning to wilt at the edges as their protection fades.
With Amalia’s help, I guide my brother through the shimmering surface. The mirror accepts him easily, Royal blood recognizing Royal blood. His body passes through with minimal resistance, disappearing into the safety of the Dark Sithe.
Relief floods through me as I turn back to Amalia, extending my hand to help her through next. “Hurry.”
As her hand reaches for mine, the wall behind her explodes outward in a shower of crystal shards. From the hole emerges a creature of nightmares, its body a twisted sculpture of reflective glass and sharp edges.
The glasscrawler skitters across the ceiling, its pointed legs leaving deep gouges in their wake.
As the creature descends toward her, her name tears from my throat. “Amalia!”
I lunge forward, Silver magic sputtering in my palms, useless so far from home. I move to aid her with my sword instead, but Thalindor’s arm blocks my path with immovable strength.
“Your Majesty,” he hisses with urgency, “the King’s safety comes first.”
“Release me,” I command, twisting in his hold.
Amalia draws the dagger ever at her belt, and runes etched along its blade flare to life. “Go! I’ll follow!”
The mirror’s surface begins to crack, thin lines frosting inward from the edges. The chamber rumbles, crystal flowers withering to dust as the court’s rage intensifies.
“Amalia, please,” I beg, reaching past Thalindor’s restraining arm.
“My job is to hunt monsters.” She squares herself across the chamber, determination holding her steady. “And yours is to be a king who puts his realm first. Go.”
