Page 91 of Mostly Shattered

“Fix it.” My voice is raspy, but I force it out. I limp up to him and hold out my hand. “We don’t have much time.”

Costin joins me, slumping against the table’s edge as if he needs it to hold him upright.

“You are too late. Draakmar is awake.” The troll waves his hand as if to tell me to leave. “Morvok will go to sleep until the ancient one tires.”

“We have to try, Morvok,” I insist.

The troll’s eyes gleam in the dim firelight, glancing from me to the amulet shards as if weighing its worth. He reaches out a giant hand, his fingers scraping against the stone tabletop as he gathers the dust of the yellow gemstone he’d crushed earlier under his thumb. He pushes it toward the broken amulet, still caked with my dried blood from before.

“As the pet wishes,” Morvok says, reaching for the vial of green liquid. “If you have failed, we cannot try again.”

“If I have failed, it won’t matter. Everything will be destroyed,” I tell him, holding out my hand more insistently.

Morvok holds up one of the amulet’s shards to the light. The jagged edges of the broken piece gleam.

“A piece of Draakmar’s scale,” I say, repeating what Costin told me before. My voice is steady now, though I feel the weight of the words settle on my shoulders. I let my hand drop to the table, unable to keep holding it up.

The troll nods slowly. “Yes. It was forged long ago, a piece of his very essence—his fire,his soul, his power. Only that power can stop him.”

The air in the troll’s home seems to grow warmer. Draakmar can only be defeated by a piece of himself. That makes sense, but there is no time to dwell on the fact. Now is the time for action. But the amulet is in pieces, shattered and useless, and we’re running out of time.

“How do we fix it?” I ask, desperation creeping into my tone.

“Your blood,” the troll says, his voice rumbling with finality. His gaze locks onto mine. “Only with the blood of one who holds true power can this be mended. Morvok told you this.”

My stomach knots at his words. I glance at Costin, but his paling expression is unreadable, his gaze flickering between the troll and me.

“And if it doesn’t work?” I ask nervously, unsure if my time in the labyrinth will be enough. Costin followed me in, and it’s not like I got a certificate of completion in the end. Nothing feels different. I don’t feel like I have earned any magic. “Is there be another way?”

“If it doesn’t work,” the troll says with a shrug, “then you are dead, and Morvok naps.”

It doesn’t seem like the troll had much to lose.

I feel like I’m standing in quicksand. I offer my hand again, and the troll reaches for his knife. Thesight of it sends a shiver over me as I remember what it feels like to be cut, but I don’t pull away.

Costin touches my side in support, bumping my sore rib. I flinch and suck in a sharp breath. I don’t push him away as I meet his gaze. For a moment, the world outside fades away, and it’s just us, standing in this cave, ready to make the ultimate sacrifice.

There is so much I want to say to him.

Thank you.

I’m sorry.

Don’t leave me.

The blade bites into my skin before I can speak. The sharp pain radiates up from my sore hand, and my breath catches in my throat. I turn to the wound, watching my blood flow thick and red onto the broken pieces of the amulet. It pools over the jagged green shards, sinking into the amulet’s cracks before trailing over the table to drip onto the floor.

The troll releases me, and I ball my hand into a fist to stop the bleeding. Morvok mutters to himself, low and ancient words I don’t understand. I stare at the shards, willing them to change. But nothing happens. The amulet remains broken, the cracks still visible, and the pieces still separate.

A tear slips over my cheek, and I shake my head. I’ve failed. “No.”

The tremors become more insistent, and I hear loud crashes coming from outside. Draakmar hasmade it out of the subway tunnels. I sense that he’s close. Panic rises in my chest. It’s not working. My blood drips from my fist onto the stone floor, useless. I stare at the broken pieces.

“No, no, no,” I mutter, leaning over the table, pressing my wounded hand into the surface as I grip the stone. My eyes burn, and my vision blurs. “Come on.”

“Patience.” The troll takes my hand and throws powder on it to stop the bleeding. The cut burns as it seals shut. He then watches the amulet with his dispassionate eyes. “If the magic within you is strong enough, it will mend.”

“I don’t have magic.” I turn to Costin. “I’m sorry. I’ve never had magic. I’m not special. It wasn’t me. My grandfather was wrong. I’m not the one in the prophecy.”

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