Page 114 of Harbinger

I grab the dagger and thrust it into his palm. “Here. Just … just hold on.”

His fingers close over mine, holding the knife between us. They’re warm and steady in a way that doesn’t make sense.

“It’s the only way,” he says.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head violently. “No. Not like this. Not you, too.”

He smiles up at me with glassy eyes, and my chest aches. “You did what you could,” he mumbles. “Now trust me.”

He shifts his grip, guiding my hand before I understand what he’s doing.

And drives the blade into his own throat.

Cartilage splinters as it slides in, warm blood spilling on my hands.

His grip on mine loosens, and I fling the blade in the dirt.

The sound that tears out of me doesn’t belong to my body. It rips through the trees, reaching the stars as his weight settles fully against me.

And Bishop Marius dies in my arms.

TWENTY-ONE

My legs go numb, but I don’t move. The fire burns down to embers. The smoke thins, and the forest settles into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the distant rush of the sea and the low crackle of smoldering branches.

Bishop lies in my arms, his body too heavy. The pale patterns mapped on his skin darken like the magic has been poisoned and died with him.

I ran. I thought I had to for Kieren—and for me. I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought Bishop was a monster.

Instead, he came for me. He saved me.

He found that letter—

And now he’s dead.

They’re both dead.

Kieren’s hand was warm when he squeezed mine at the crossroads.

Now it’s bloody and still in the mud beside me.

My tears run dry before the fire goes out. I can’t summon another sob even when I try, as though my body has decided this is as much as it can survive.

I can’t keep looking at them. If I do, I’ll start screaming again. So, I tilt my head back. Smoke drifts across the sky in pale ribbons, briefly smudging the constellations before the wind tears them apart. The stars look the same as they always have, except for the Night’s Scar gaping above me, that single star blazing inside it like an accusation.

Everything I touch dies.

The thought presses in and won’t retreat. My parents. My home. Kieren. Bishop.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the truth won’t go away any more than that fucking star will.

A faint vibration hums against my palm, startling my attention back to Bishop. The buzz grows insistent, and I slip my hand into the pocket of his pants and find his astrolabe.

Its faint light pulses weakly, as if echoing a heartbeat that no longer exists, then gutters out.

Bishop planned for this.

Of course he did. He planned for everything. Except for dying and leaving me with the aftermath.