Page 107 of Librarian

“Power that you have helpfully been gathering for me from the second I taught you your first dark spells.”

Isidora recognises the threat for what it is and doesn’t hesitate.

Fire streaks out of her palm, heading straight for Mathias, only to splutter out just as quickly. I still can’t see him, but whatever he’s doing is sucking away the flames like a vacuum.

Metal groans. I can feel my bones aching.

The heart is…breaking.

I don’t know how I know that. Perhaps proximity is to blame. Right now, I can feel it as surely as I can feel my own body.

Isidora’s knees buckle as he strides into my view. The dagger is held out in front of him and pointing directly at her.

No. Not at her. At the gleaming gem at her throat.

“You can’t,” she screams. “I’ve been loyal?—”

“Loyal? Dear Isidora.” Mathias whips the blade away, and she gasps in a breath. “You think I didn’t understand your plan from the moment you said all you’d ever wanted was to become like me?”

Isidora starts to chant, but Mathias’s spell is faster and wordless, sending her grimoire flying down the hallway behind her.

Disarmed.

She’s done for. The dawning panic creeping into her eyes as she pulls out a handful of scraps from her waistband says she knows it, too.

Mathias chuckles. “You think I didn’t do the exact same to my mentor once I had my soul safely hidden away and no more use for him?”

“I would never!”

He tuts under his breath. “Yes, you would. You have no loyalty to anyone but yourself. I’ve always liked that about you. It reminds me of myself.” His smile is condescending as he stands over her, his legs almost obscuring her from view. “But do you know what the difference is between you and I?”

She tries to cast again, using a shield this time. It doesn’t matter.

Mathias steps right through her barrier with a single spell from his grimoire.

“I succeeded.”

She casts a wisplight right in his face, trying to blind him.

But his long, spidery fingers find the chain and rip the gem from her neck.

Isidora screeches like a banshee, launching herself at him.

Spears of ice rain down around her, stabbing through clothes, flesh, bone.

She’s pinned in place, her cry of pain echoing off the walls as the metallic tang of blood—already present—grows thicker.

“No,” she sobs. “No. Please. I can?—”

Her soul vessel clatters onto the desk above us, and I will the frantic pounding of my heart to quieten.

Thump. His grimoire lands next.

The second it’s within touching distance, my skin crawls. I might as well have dunked myself in rotten slime.

“An mekith imediom, myrtel ottarn myrtel…”

The oleaginous wash of necromancy beats against my skull with every word. I commit each syllable to memory, praying to the stars that Dakari or North is watching what he’s doing above me.