LAST LINE
Relief washed over Grace like a soft tide.
Paul was finally down.
But it was fleeting.
The battlefield still crackled with chaos, and there was work to be done.
Franklin staggered toward them, limping, his coat torn and streaked with blood and dirt. He didn't even glance at Grace as he fell to his knees beside Nessa's limp body. His hands trembled as he gathered her into his arms, brushing the hair from her face with a tenderness that broke Grace's heart.
"Shh… it's okay now. You're safe," he whispered.
But his voice wasn't for Nessa. It was for himself.
Grace turned away, her gaze drawn to the devastation Paul had left behind. The earth itself seemed to groan where his power had passed. She had always known about the darkness lurking within her brother — had seen it flicker behind his calm eyes — but seeing it unleashed like this was something else entirely.
The same eyes that once looked at her with warmth had glared at her moments ago with hatred.
A chill coursed through her veins. For the first time, she wondered if she had already lost him.
But there was no time for grief. The barrier still flickered in the distance — evidence that the General was still locked in combat with AgwuNsi. If that barrier fell, they were finished.
Franklin laid Nessa gently on the ground, then turned toward Paul. His face hardened. The trembling hands from moments ago clenched into fists. He drew his blade, the metal catching the dim light.
He was going to kill him.
Grace saw it coming and moved before he could take another step.
She drew an arrow from her quiver. A golden shimmer gathered around her fingertips, forming the arrow midair. The light danced in her eyes like fire.
Franklin froze in shock. He hadn't noticed her power before — hadn't seen what she could do. Any other day he might have stopped to ask, but today, rage eclipsed reason.
"Grace, right? Get out of the way!" he barked.
"Over my dead body," she hissed back.
He stepped forward.
Her arrow flashed.
It buried itself in the ground — an inch from his boot.
"Try me," she said, voice steady as steel. "I won't miss twice."
For a moment, the only sound was the crackling wind and Franklin's ragged breathing. Anger flickered across his face, then faltered into something more conflicted.
"Why are you protecting him?" he demanded. "He nearly killed you too!"
"I said no one touches him!" she shouted, her bow still drawn. Her hands trembled, but she didn't lower it. "He's my brother."
Franklin hesitated. With that golden light aimed at his heart, a fight was suicide. His jaw tightened, and his eyes darted toward Nessa instead.
Grace seized the opening.
"Let me help her," she said quickly, voice softening. "Please."
He turned sharply. "Help her? How? You're not a doctor. You're a teenager"
"We're the same age," she said, breathless but firm. "And I never said I was."
"Then what—?"
"Please," she cut in, her voice cracking. "She saved me. Let me save her."
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then Franklin's shoulders fell. He stepped aside.
Grace gave him a grateful look, then rushed to Nessa's side. She pressed her hand to the woman's chest and closed her eyes. Warm energy began to hum from her core — soft, golden threads of light flowing through her fingertips and into Nessa's body.
It burned.
Her skin felt like melting wax, her veins alight with something divine yet volatile. The longer she poured her essence out, the dimmer her own light became.
But at last, she pulled back, gasping.
Nessa's chest rose.
Her eyelids fluttered.
Grace slumped to the side, dizzy but smiling faintly.
She had done it.
Franklin didn't move toward Paul. True to his pride, he held himself in check — watching instead as color slowly returned to his sister's face.
Grace fumbled through her satchel for an elixir. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped the bottle. By the time she looked up again, Franklin was cradling Nessa's hand, whispering a quiet, disbelieving prayer.
"What the…? How did you—? Is that magic?" he asked, awe creeping into his voice.
Grace's lip curled in disgust. "That nasty stuff? No. Just… faith."
Her answer didn't convince him, but he let it drop. They had bigger problems.
"The dome," she said, pointing toward the glowing barrier. "We can't stay idle."
Franklin scratched his head, looking utterly lost. Grace nearly groaned aloud.
Oh for heaven's sake…
"My sister usually knows what to do…" he muttered.
Grace exhaled sharply. Of course she does.
"Frank," Nessa's voice broke through, calm but commanding. She had been awake longer than either realized, listening. "Bring out the Mirror of Clarity."
Her brother instantly straightened — the obedience of a soldier before his general.
He retrieved her satchel and produced a mirror that shimmered beneath the moonlight.
It was beautiful and terrible all at once — a relic of gold, its frame a weave of interlocking crosses, the glass smooth and untouched by time. The moonlight turned its reflection crimson, as though it drank in the blood around them. Grace could feel the air tighten with reverence. This was no ordinary artifact.
"The Mirror of Clarity," she whispered. She had read of it — Saint Jane Esquila's relic from the thirteenth century, said to have been an answer to her prayers that saved her from her executioners. A holy conduit of divine truth.
"Are you sure you can handle it?" Franklin asked, voice low.
Nessa smiled faintly. "Never been better."
She knelt, pressing the mirror against the soil. Her prayer began softly, a melody of English and Igbo woven together. The sound carried, trembling through the air. The mirror's surface glowed, a beam of white light piercing the night and cutting through the red haze above.
Grace felt her body kneel on instinct beside her. Even Philip — far away, still recovering — lowered his head. The power radiating from the mirror demanded reverence.
Wind howled through the clearing, bending the trees as though they, too, bowed to the light.
The darkness retreated for the briefest moment.
Grace's heart hammered in her chest, her eyes wide with fragile hope.
Maybe… just maybe… we can win this…
…
Philip staggered, his sword arm trembling under the weight of exhaustion.
Confuscio pulsed faintly in his grasp, its once-brilliant edge dulled and slick with blood. Against a god — the god of illusions — it was like striking fog.
AgwuNsi hadn't broken a sweat. His grin widened each time Philip swung, as though the duel itself was a game.
He wasn't fighting to win. He was simply playing.
Philip's breaths came shallow. What's happening outside? AgwuNsi's earlier words about "danger beyond the dome" gnawed at him, worming into his concentration. The god's calm confidence felt like a nail sealing the lid on his coffin.
He had to act. He had to save them. But the god wasn't giving him a chance.
"Where is that earlier bravado, boy!?" AgwuNsi's laughter filled the air, echoing unnaturally through the illusionary space.
"Do you know who I am? I was born the day your ancestors looked to the skies and begged for wisdom. I whispered into their dreams, taught them to weave deceit like silk. I am the wisdom that blinds, I am the truth that lies!"
His voice cracked into a shriek. "And you thought you could outsmart me? Every trick you've ever learned was mine before your bloodline had a name!"
He slashed the air with clawed fingers.
Pain erupted down Philip's arm as flesh tore and blood spattered the dome floor. He clenched his jaw, refusing to scream. AgwuNsi wanted his despair. He wouldn't give it to him.
But the blood loss was catching up. His legs trembled, his vision swimming in shades of red and shadow. Confuscio's weight felt heavier than steel — it felt like guilt.
If only I had more time… to train them… to prepare them.
He could still sense his team outside, faintly — Franklin's defiance and Nessa's light. He needed to reach them. But if he stopped to heal, AgwuNsi would tear him apart.
It was a cruel stalemate.
The god smiled, licking his claws like a man savoring a meal.
"How does it feel, Philip?" he purred. "To feel your will unravel… to know you'll soon belong to me?"
He stepped closer, eyes glowing like dying embers. "You'll make a fine puppet. A soldier turned marionette."
Philip tightened his grip. "I'll scatter for eternity in the before that happens."
"Then I'll grant you that torment," AgwuNsi hissed.
He lunged — and Philip fell to one knee, not from fear but resolve. He closed his eyes, forcing his body into stillness. If he couldn't fight with strength, he would fight with spirit.
Confuscio… lend me what remains.
But before the blade could answer, the world cracked.
The dome shattered — its illusion peeled away like torn fabric.
Light poured in, brilliant and holy, burning the false shadows into ash. Philip shielded his eyes as AgwuNsi recoiled, a snarl twisting his once-serene face.
The Mirror of Clarity hovered at the dome's edge, its radiance searing through the illusion.
And beside it, Franklin held aloft a second relic — the Okwute Ọkụ, the Stone of Fire — its flames entwining with the mirror's light until the air itself shimmered.
AgwuNsi screamed.
"No… no! That light— it burns through reason itself! You cannot—!"
He staggered, his form flickering like smoke in the sun. The divine radiance tore through his illusions, revealing his true self — brittle, fractured, terrified.
"How—how could I miscalculate?!" His voice cracked, disbelief bleeding into hysteria. "I had all the variables! Unless…"
His gaze darted to the unconscious boy — then to Grace, who stood amid the light, eyes wide but unyielding.
"Yes… yes, I see now."
He laughed — wild, broken laughter that twisted into a shriek. "You… are the anomaly!"
The mirror's glow surged, the flames of the Okwute and the mirrors loght consuming him.
AgwuNsi's form disintegrated, fragments of shadow dissolving into dust — yet even as his body turned to ash, his gaze did not leave Grace.
"Ah…" he whispered, a final smirk curling his lips.
"So that's where the thread leads."
And then he was gone.