Zareth's POV
The first ghost appears while I'm still screaming.
She's young—maybe sixteen—with flowers woven in her hair. I remember her. Target number forty-three. She ran through a market, begging people to hide her. I caught her anyway.
"Why?" she whispers, staring at me with dead eyes. "I was just learning to heal. I helped sick children. Why did you kill me?"
"I—" My voice breaks. "They said you were stealing magic—"
"I was giving magic. Freely. To those who needed it most." She drifts closer, and I can see the sword wound in her chest. My sword. "You didn't even ask. You just killed me."
Another ghost materializes. Then another. Then ten more. Twenty. Fifty.
All one hundred and twenty-seven of them, crowding around me in the crystal valley. Their voices blend together into a chorus of accusation:
"Why?"
"We had families."
"We had children."
"We were protecting the world."
"You murdered us."
I collapse completely, curling into a ball. The pain in my marks is nothing compared to the pain in my chest. I can't breathe. Can't see. Can't escape their faces.
Lysander's golden light pushes through the crowd of ghosts, scattering them like smoke. He kneels beside me, his hand on my back.
"Breathe, Zareth. Just breathe."
"I can't—they're all—I killed them—"
"I know." His voice is impossibly gentle. "I know what you did. I watched most of them die. But you didn't know the truth. You were a weapon in someone else's hand."
"That doesn't make it okay!" I gasp, tears streaming down my face. "I still did it. I still took their lives. How many children did I leave without parents? How many—"
The memories hit like a tidal wave.
Suddenly, I'm six years old again, hiding behind my mother's legs. Our home is filled with silver Reapers. Their marks glow in the darkness like dying stars.
"Please," my mother begs. Her hands glow with power, but she doesn't attack. Won't attack. "She doesn't know what she is. Let me raise her in peace. I'll never leave the Mourning Districts. I'll never use my power. Just let me keep my daughters."
Daughters. Plural.
I turn my head and see Lyra—eight years old, with silver eyes like mine—clutching a doll and crying silently.
Cassian steps forward. Younger but just as cold. "You should have thought of that before you fell in love with a mortal, Reverie. Before you broke the sacred law. Before you created this." He points at me with disgust.
"She's a child!"
"She's an abomination. Half-mortal, half-Undying. She'll never be fully either, and that makes her dangerous." His smile is cruel. "But useful. With the right training, she could become the perfect weapon. No immortal rebellion. No moral qualms. Just pure, obedient lethality."
My mother pulls me closer. "I won't let you take her."
"You don't have a choice."
A Reaper moves fast—faster than my child-eyes can follow. Silver blade flashing. My mother gasps and looks down at the sword buried in her chest.
Gold blood pours out.
"MAMA!" I scream.
She falls to her knees, still trying to shield me with her body. "Run, little anchor," she whispers. "Run and find—"
Another sword. This one through her heart.
The light goes out of her eyes.
I'm screaming. Lyra's screaming. The whole world is screaming.
Cassian kneels in front of me. Places his cold hand on my forehead. "Forget," he commands, and silver light floods my mind like poison. "Forget your mother. Forget your sister. Forget what you are. You are nothing but a weapon now. Nothing but mine."
The memory shatters.
I'm back in the crystal valley, sobbing so hard I can't see. My marks are cracking wider, bleeding light like open wounds. And Lysander is holding me, keeping me together while I fall apart.
"She died protecting me," I choke out. "And I spent twenty-one years killing people like her."
"Yes."
"I'm a monster."
"No." He pulls back to look at me. "You're a victim who became a weapon. There's a difference."
"Is there?" I wipe my face angrily. "Tell me, Lysander. All those immortals I killed—were they like my mother? Were they protecting people? Healing people? Helping people?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Most of them, yes."
The truth hits like a punch to the gut.
"Meridian the Timekeeper—target one-twenty-seven—was teaching orphans how to read," Lysander says softly. "Elara the Starweaver—target ninety-three—was healing plague victims in the outer villages. Thorne the Earthshaper—target sixty-one—was keeping the Mourning Districts' wells from drying up." He pauses. "Should I continue?"
"Stop." I can barely force the word out. "Please stop."
"You need to hear this. All of them were Undying Sovereigns doing exactly what we promised to do three thousand years ago: protect the world. Anchor reality. Use our immortality to help mortals survive." His golden eyes are full of grief. "And Cassian systematically hunted them down, lying to the Empire about what they were, turning them into monsters in people's minds. Making it easy to kill them."
"Why? If they were helping, why kill them?"
"Because immortal essence is the most powerful substance in existence." Lysander holds out his hand, and a drop of his gold blood floats above his palm, glowing. "One drop can heal any wound. One vial can power a city for years. One full harvest—killing an Undying and extracting all their essence—can grant near-immortality to a mortal."
My stomach drops. "Cassian's been using their essence to—"
"To stay young. To stay powerful. To stay in control." Lysander closes his hand, and the blood drop vanishes. "He's killed six Undying Sovereigns over thirty years. Harvested their essence. Used it to corrupt the Empire's magic system. And now I'm the last one. When I die, the anchors fail completely. The barrier between our world and the void collapses. Reality tears apart. Everything ends."
"How long?" I whisper. "If you die, how long does the world have?"
"Three years. Maybe four if we're lucky." He looks up at the eclipse-darkened sky. "I can already feel it. The void pressing in. The cracks spreading. Every day I wake up weaker. Every night I dream of the screaming when it all falls apart."
"But you said there's a way to stop it. To transfer the anchor to me."
"There is. But—" He hesitates.
"But what?"
"It requires you to kill me in a specific way. At a specific time. Using a ritual that will permanently bind you to the world's foundation." His voice is barely audible. "You'll become fully immortal, Zareth. You'll live for thousands of years. Watch everyone you love grow old and die. Be hunted by the next Empire, and the next, and the next. You'll carry the weight of reality on your shoulders for the rest of eternity."
"That's—" I can't even finish. The thought is too enormous, too terrifying.
"I know." He touches my face gently. "That's why I've spent three years trying to find another way. Any other way. But there isn't one. It's this or the end of everything."
I want to scream. Want to run. Want to go back to being the perfect weapon who didn't have to make impossible choices.
But I can't. The marks are cracking. The truth is flooding back. And I'm finally, painfully becoming myself again.
"Teach me," I say.
"Zareth—"
"Teach me how to kill you and save the world." I grab his hands. "Because I'm not letting Cassian win. I'm not letting my mother's death be meaningless. And I'm not letting reality collapse because I was too scared to do what needs to be done."
Lysander stares at me for a long moment. Then he nods slowly.
"It will take time. Days, maybe weeks. We need to break Cassian's hold on you completely first. Remove the marks. Unlock your full power. And—" He swallows hard. "—you need to forgive yourself for what you've done. The ritual won't work if you're carrying that much guilt and self-hatred."
"I don't know if I can."
"You have to try." He helps me stand. "Because if you become an anchor while still hating yourself, you'll go mad within a century. I've seen it happen. It's... not pretty."
My legs shake, but I force myself to stay upright. The ghosts are still there, watching from the edges of the valley. Silent now. Waiting.
"What about Cassian?" I ask. "He knows I'm with you. He'll send more Reapers. Maybe come himself."
"Let him." Lysander's expression hardens. "I've been running from confrontation for thirty years. Letting him hunt my family one by one. Hoping someone else would stop him. But no one did. No one will." He looks at me. "Except maybe us."
"Us?"
"You're the only person alive who's both mortal enough to resist his manipulation and immortal enough to match his power. You're the weapon he created to kill me." He smiles grimly. "But maybe, just maybe, you can be the weapon that kills him instead."
The marks on my arms pulse violently. Pain rips through me, and I gasp.
"What's happening?"
Lysander's eyes widen. "The marks. They're fighting back. Trying to force you to complete the mission." He grabs my shoulders. "Zareth, listen to me. You need to fight them. Don't let Cassian's magic control you."
"I'm trying—"
But it's not working. The silver light is spreading, covering my vision. And in my head, I hear Cassian's voice:
"Kill him. Kill the monster. Complete your mission. Be my perfect weapon."
My hand moves on its own, reaching for where Silverbane should be.
But I threw my sword at Seraphine. I'm unarmed.
Except I'm not.
The Voidwater vial is still in my pocket.
My hand closes around it.
"No," I whisper, but my body won't listen. "Lysander, run—"
"I'm not leaving you."
My arm raises. The vial uncorks itself. Black poison floats out, forming into a blade made of pure void.
And I lunge at Lysander with death in my hands and his voice screaming in my mind:
"Fight it! Remember who you are! Remember your mother! Remember Lyra!"
The void blade stops inches from his throat.
I'm shaking. Sweating. Every muscle locked in place as I war with the marks' control.
"Good," Lysander breathes. "You're stronger than his magic. You just have to believe it."
"I can't—hold it—much longer—"
"Yes, you can. Because you're not alone anymore." He places his hand over my heart. "Your mother's love. Lyra's faith. My promise. They're all inside you, Zareth. You're not just Cassian's weapon. You're so much more."
The marks crack wider.
Light explodes from them—silver and gold mixed together.
And in that light, I see her.
My mother. Reverie. Standing behind Lysander with her hand on his shoulder.
She smiles at me. "Let go, little anchor. Let go of the lies. Remember who you were always meant to be."
She fades.
The void blade dissolves.
I collapse into Lysander's arms, gasping.
"I'm sorry," I sob. "I almost—I almost killed you—"
"But you didn't." He holds me tight. "You're breaking free, Zareth. It's working."
A sound echoes across the valley. Slow, mocking applause.
We both freeze.
Standing on the crystal cliff above us, silhouetted against the eclipsed sun, is Cassian.
"Magnificent," he calls down. "Absolutely magnificent. You've exceeded even my highest expectations, my dear."
"How did you find us?" Lysander demands.
Cassian laughs. "I didn't need to find you. I've always known where you were." He taps his temple. "The marks are mine, remember? I see through her eyes. Hear through her ears. Feel what she feels."
Horror washes over me. "You've been watching everything?"
"Every moment since you left the Spire." His smile is warm, paternal, sickening. "And I must say, this has been educational. Watching you fight my control. Watching Lysander corrupt you with his truth. It's almost made me reconsider my plans."
"Almost?"
"Almost." He spreads his arms. "But not quite. You see, everything that's happened is exactly what I needed. Your marks are at their breaking point. Your essence is destabilized. And Lysander has kindly trapped himself in a valley with no escape routes." His eyes glow silver. "Perfect conditions for the final harvest."
The crystal cliffs crack. Dozens—no, hundreds—of Reapers pour through, surrounding the entire valley.
"I brought everyone," Cassian says cheerfully. "Every Reaper in the Empire. Because tonight, we end the Undying forever. Tonight, I become a god."
Lysander pulls me behind him. "Run. I'll hold them off."
"I'm not leaving—"
"There's a crack in the cliff behind us. Leads to underground tunnels. Follow them east until you find—"
"I said I'm not leaving!"
"Zareth, please—"
Cassian's laughter cuts through our argument. "How touching! But neither of you are leaving." He raises his hand, and the silver marks on every Reaper—hundreds of them—glow in unison. "Kill them both. And make sure the girl dies slowly. I want to savor every drop of her essence."
The Reapers charge.
And I realize with terrible clarity: we're not going to survive this.