Zareth's POV
I run through the window.
Glass shatters around me as I dive three stories down, tucking and rolling when I hit the ground. Pain shoots through my shoulder, but I don't stop. Can't stop.
Behind me, alarms scream through the Celestial Spire. Reapers pour out of doors, weapons drawn, hunting me like I've hunted so many others.
"Zareth Mourningveil!" someone shouts. "Stop! By order of the High Luminary!"
I don't stop. I run faster.
The Voidwater vial bounces in my pocket. Silverbane slaps against my back. And in my other pocket, folded carefully, is the note from my sister: Don't kill him.
I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I only know I need answers, and there's only one person who might give them to me.
Even if that person is supposed to be my final target.
The city blurs around me as I sprint through dark streets. My marks burn with every step, silver light bleeding through my sleeves. People stare as I pass, but I don't care. Let them look. Let them see the Empire's perfect weapon falling apart.
I reach the city gates just as the eclipse begins.
The moon slides in front of the sun, turning day into eerie twilight. Shadows stretch and twist. Magic hums in the air, wild and dangerous.
Perfect time for hunting immortals.
Or for running from your own people.
I slip through the gates and head toward the Starless Wastes. Toward Aeternum. Toward the man who knows everything Cassian doesn't want me to know.
The journey takes six hours. Six hours of running until my lungs burn and my legs scream. Six hours of looking over my shoulder, expecting Reapers to catch up.
But they don't come. Either they can't track me in the eclipse, or Cassian wants me to reach Lysander. Wants me to complete the mission even if it kills me.
Especially if it kills me.
By the time I reach Aeternum, the eclipse is total. Darkness covers everything except for starlight—cold, distant, ancient.
The ruins rise before me like broken teeth. Towers made of crystal that catch starlight and bend it into colors I don't have names for. Streets paved with constellation patterns that still glow after three thousand years. And everywhere, the feeling of power—old magic sleeping just beneath the surface.
This place is beautiful and terrible and wrong. Like stepping into a grave that doesn't know it's dead.
I walk through empty streets, hand on Silverbane's hilt. My heart pounds. The marks on my arms pulse faster, brighter, like they're excited. Or terrified.
I reach what must have been a palace. Most of it is rubble now, but one section still stands—a throne room open to the stars.
And sitting on the broken throne, reading a book by starlight, is him.
Lysander Ashencrown.
He's exactly like the photographs, but also nothing like them. The pictures showed his face, his golden eyes, his dark hair. But they didn't capture the weight of him. Three thousand years of life pressing down, making the air around him feel heavier.
He looks up from his book. Smiles.
"Hello, Zareth. You're late."
My marks explode with pain.
I scream and drop to my knees. Silver light erupts from every crack, so bright I can't see. And with the light comes memory—
I'm five years old, wearing a dress made of starlight. My mother stands beside me, smiling. And in front of me, kneeling, is Lysander.
"Do you promise to protect her?" my mother asks.
"With my life," Lysander says. "And my death, if it comes to that."
He places something on my head—a crown made of living stars. It doesn't weigh anything, but I can feel its power humming against my skin.
"Little anchor," he says softly. "You're going to save the world someday."
"Will you help me?" I ask.
"Always."
The memory shatters. I'm back in the throne room, gasping for air. The pain fades slowly, leaving me shaking.
"What—what was that?" I manage.
"A promise I made twenty-two years ago." Lysander sets his book aside and stands. "One I've been trying to keep ever since."
I force myself to stand, even though my legs feel like water. "You knew me. Before."
"I knew you when you were born. When you first smiled. When you learned to walk." His golden eyes are sad. "I knew you before Cassian took you and turned you into this."
"Into what?"
"A weapon aimed at your own heart."
Anger flares through me. "Don't talk in riddles. I came here for answers, not—"
"Then ask your questions." He spreads his hands. "I've been waiting three years for you to find me. Waiting for your marks to crack enough that you could remember. Waiting for you to be ready to hear the truth."
"Three years? You've been hiding here for three years?"
"I haven't been hiding. I've been waiting." He takes a step closer. "There's a difference."
I pull Silverbane from its sheath. The sword hums, recognizing immortal blood nearby. "Stay back."
Lysander stops, but he doesn't look afraid. "Are you going to kill me, Zareth?"
"That's why I'm here."
"No." He shakes his head. "You're here because a part of you knows something's wrong. Because the marks are failing and the memories are returning. Because you received a note from someone who called you 'sister' and it made you question everything."
My blood runs cold. "How do you know about that?"
"Because I'm the one who helped Lyra send it." He smiles gently. "Your sister's been with me for sixteen years. Ever since I rescued her from the Mourning Districts."
The world tilts. "Lyra's... here?"
"Not here. But close. Safe. Hidden where Cassian can't find her." His expression darkens. "She's wanted to contact you for years, but I wouldn't let her. Too dangerous. Until your marks started cracking. Until I knew you were ready to listen."
"Ready to listen to what?"
"The truth about who you are. What you are. And why Cassian has been draining your life force to fuel his own immortality."
I stagger back. "You know about that?"
"I know everything, Zareth. I've been watching you since the day they took you. Every hunt. Every kill. Every night you woke up screaming from nightmares you couldn't remember." His voice is gentle but firm. "I've watched you become exactly what Cassian wanted—the perfect weapon to kill me and complete his ritual."
"Then why didn't you run?" I shout. "Why did you stay here, waiting for me to find you?"
"Because running wouldn't save you." He takes another step closer, and this time I don't back away. "The marks are programmed, Zareth. The moment I die—from any cause, anywhere in the world—they'll activate. They'll consume your immortal core and transfer all that power to Cassian. Running only delays the inevitable."
"So what, I'm just supposed to let you live?"
"No." His smile turns sad. "You're supposed to kill me. But in the right way. In a way that breaks the ritual instead of completing it."
My head spins. "That's impossible."
"It's extremely difficult. And extremely dangerous. And requires you to trust me completely." He holds out his hand. "So I'm asking: will you give me three days? Three days to prove what I'm saying. Three days to teach you how to break Cassian's hold. Three days to save both our lives."
I stare at his outstretched hand. At the man who knew me before I became a monster. Who protected my sister. Who's been waiting years for this moment.
Every instinct screams at me to attack. To complete the mission. To be the perfect weapon Cassian created.
But I'm not perfect anymore. The marks are cracking. The memories are returning. And the little girl who trusted this man—who wore a crown of starlight and believed she could save the world—is waking up inside me.
"Three days," I whisper.
I reach out to take his hand.
The moment our fingers touch, the marks on my arms explode.
Light fills the throne room—silver and gold mixing together, swirling like a storm. Power surges through me, more power than I've ever felt, more than I thought possible.
And in that light, I see everything.
I see Cassian murdering my mother. See him taking me as a child. See him carving the marks into my skin while I screamed. See him draining my essence year after year, feeding on my immortal blood like a parasite.
I see Lysander watching from the shadows, unable to interfere without revealing himself. See him saving Lyra from the same fate. See him studying, searching, planning for this exact moment.
I see the ritual Cassian designed—the one that will consume me when Lysander dies. See how it works, what it needs, how it feeds.
And I see something else. Something impossible.
I see myself and Lysander dissolving into light. See us becoming part of the world itself. See stars shining brighter because we chose each other instead of Cassian's lies.
The vision ends. The light fades.
I'm still holding Lysander's hand, gasping for breath.
"What—what was that?"
"The future," he says quietly. "One of them, anyway. The one where we both survive. The one where we save each other."
"By dying?"
"By transforming. There's a difference."
Before I can respond, the ground shakes. Thunder cracks across the eclipse-darkened sky.
Lysander's face goes pale. "No. Not yet. They're not supposed to find us yet—"
"Who?"
He pulls me behind a pillar just as the throne room entrance explodes.
Reapers pour through—dozens of them, blades drawn, marks glowing. And leading them, twin chakrams spinning, is Seraphine.
"Hello, traitor," she calls out to me. Her voice is cold, empty. "Cassian sends his regards. He said to tell you that you've failed. That I'm the Master Reaper now. And that he's going to enjoy watching me kill you both."
Behind her, more Reapers appear. Fifty. Sixty. Maybe more.
We're surrounded. Outnumbered. Trapped.
Lysander squeezes my hand once. "Do you trust me?"
I should say no. Should pull away. Should fight him like I'm trained to do.
But looking into his golden eyes—the eyes that watched over me as a child, that protected my sister, that have been waiting three years for this moment—I realize something terrifying:
I do trust him. More than I trust Cassian. More than I trust the Empire. Maybe more than I trust myself.
"Yes," I whisper.
He smiles. "Good. Because this is going to hurt."
Golden light erupts from his free hand.
The world turns inside out.
And everything I thought I knew about reality shatters like glass.