Page 41 of Ignite
The stars above me are strange, different from the sky I’ve lost myself gazing at countless times. This sky is…wrong.
“Lunaria,” the voice says sharply.
My gaze snaps toward the sound, and I realize I’m no longer in the cave surrounded by my friends. I’m in a forest with an odd constellation above and the smell of frost in the air. Snow clings to the trees, moonlight glittering against it.
In front of me rests a massive temple, one with a grand staircasethat winds up a hill to the top. It’s more of a castle—tall spires spearing off the top of it, along with pointed towers and thick walls.
The entrance is a heavy stone door, intricate etchings carved over the entire surface—something that looks like it would’ve taken years to sculpt into the solid granite.
A raven sits on the top stair at the threshold of the temple, staring right at me as if watching my every move.
From the corner of my eye, movement catches my attention. The hair on my neck stands on end as I follow the shadowy figure disappearing into the lustrous building. Strands of raven-black hair billow behind the figure—a woman, I realize—but she’s gone before I can catch more than the sight of her silky-soft curls.
“Breathe.” His words settle around me, and I release a long breath, my lungs burning.
I steel my spine and finally look at the man to whom the voice belongs.
The warmth I felt a few moments ago vanishes, replaced by an icy chill that steals my breath once more.
One of his eyes is a deep midnight, while the other is a bright green. His hair matches the navy of his right eye, trimmed short and exposing his sharp jawline. He watches me closely, and I try not to squirm beneath his gaze.
I’ve read about these eyes. The god with split irises, the god who sides with Vidaris, but also gifted Nocturna fae their magic. He’s the God of Fear and Dreams.
“Nyx.” The air in my lungs freezes, trapped inside of me as he stares down at me.
Fear swirls around in my stomach, but I tilt my chin up, refusing to back down.
“You found the carvings, I take it,” he says evenly, his face neutral.
I swallow and nod. “You brought me here?”
I’m starting to wonder if my decisionwasn’tthe right one tomake. The only stories I’ve heard of Nyx are ones of him siding with Vidaris. Why would he have drawn me to this place? The only answer has to be that it’s for Vidaris, or for some selfish gain of his own.
A god wouldn’t bother bringing a fae to this…place unless it was for something that benefited them.
My gaze drifts to the strange stars and then to the snow at our feet.
“We don’t have long.” He ignores my question, his words coming out quicker. “Nightfall awaits you.”
No—the dagger isn’treal. Moros is still alive. If Nightfall could truly pierce through any darkness, it would’ve worked and killed him. Yet here he is, pulling the strings of the rulers of Crea. Even if the dagger does exist, it clearly doesn’t have the power the stories claim.
But the possibility of it both existingandworking could change the game. There would be a shift of power, an imbalance tipping the scales in our favor this time. Right now, we don’t have a way to fight against Vidaris, let alone Daimon. But this dagger would give us the edge we need.
I shake my head and take a step back. I’ve read about the tricks of the Divine—how, if they’re entering the fight, we should all beg Eurydice for mercy.
“No,” I growl. Believing the God of Fear and Dreams is too risky. If he’s only sided with Vidaris, what could he gain from helping us? If I choose to believe him and we only bring the dagger to fight against Vidaris, she would kill usallwithout a second thought. We’d lose before we even began. “I know that Moros was stabbed by the blade, and yet he lives. Likely creating a new war just as he did last time.”
Nyx tilts his head to the side and says, “Believe what you want, but heed my words.”
Something in his voice sends a chill down my spine, his warning clamping my mouth closed.
“A dagger crafted by a god can only be wielded by such,” he says. “Only that created by the proper blood can use the full potential of Nightfall. Both forged by a Divine, prophesied thatyou, the daughter of both worlds—blood of the gods and of the fae—can harness its magic.”
My breath catches, and my voice shakes as I ask, “Blood of the gods?”
His face remains passive, as if this news didn’t just completely turn my world upside down.
“But Daimon—my father—is fae, just like my mother.” My words stumble out. I clear my throat. “How does that make me a ‘daughter of two worlds’?”
