Page 85 of Fading Sun

He should sacrifice the blade he enspelled to be invincible. He saw as clearly as the rest of us how close the Yeti came to getting it and using it against us.

If there was ever a time to destroy an invincible blade, it would be now.

He takes a deep breath, his eyes meeting mine as he contemplates my words.

“The gesture represents more than the penknife itself,” he says, turning his focus back to the Buddha. “I’m leaving the way I used to do magic behind, and I’m putting my full trust into the Crimson Quill. And, most importantly, I’ve been holding onto this penknife because I wanted to believe I could use it to reverse the curse I placed on my mother. By sacrificing it now, I’m releasing the hope I had that I could heal her. I’m giving up the person I used to be, and fully stepping into the one I am now.”

With that, he steps up to the bowl and drops the penknife inside.

Morgan

The golden liquid in the sacrificial bowl swirls and glows brighter, the light creating shadows on Blaze’s sharp, strong features as it consumes his penknife.

Finally, after a painfully long few seconds, the liquid stills.

“Accepted,” the Buddha says.

Blaze steps back, and his eyes are darker, as if he sacrificed a piece of his soul along with that knife.

My breath hitches, chills running down my spine, memories of the wind’s whispers returning to my mind.

He’s getting dangerous.

The quill’s darkness is consuming him.

You have to end it, before it’s too late.

No, I think, shaking myself out of it. I’m inside. The wind can’t touch me here. These are just memories.

I’ll deal with the whispers later. Right now, I need to figure out what I want to sacrifice, or I might never get out of here at all.

My fingers drift to my necklace again, my heart hurting at the thought of parting with it forever.

Luckily, Damien steps up to the sacrificial bowl before I have a chance, his movements deliberate and measured.

He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out the dagger he had in front of him during our plane trip from New York to the Himalayas. The twin to Viktor’s. A relic of a brotherly bond now severed by death.

By murder.

Damien hesitates, his eyes fixed on the blade. “Viktor and I had these forged together decades ago,” he says. “They represent our bond, our brotherhood. As I stood before his ashes, I swore to keep both of our daggers, even though he betrayed us, to remind me of who he was before everything went wrong.”

He looks up, meeting each of our eyes before settling on the Buddha. There’s a pain there, raw and real, that tears at my heart.

“By giving up my dagger and holding onto his, I’m keeping a piece of Viktor with me, while also letting go of the past,” he says. “I’m releasing my guilt for doing what I had to do, and I’m allowing myself to move forward—to my future as not just king of my clan, but also as the husband to my bride.”

His gaze turns to Amber, so intense that heat rises to her cheeks.

A blushing bride.

So cliché.

Although, I’m pretty sure that’s how she was supposed to look at him on the altar when she said her vows—not while we’re making sacrifices to a giant Buddha in his temple, who might kill us if our offerings don’t please him.

Without another word, Damien drops his dagger into the golden liquid.

The bowl glows intensely, the liquid swirling and consuming the blade.

He stands over it, watching, the sadness in his eyes heartbreaking as the light brightens, settling down as the blade disappears.

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