“Help,” I manage to gasp.

“Yes, help her,” Pearl calls. How smug she sounds. “Anyone?”

Deacon glances my way and appears behind Pearl a second later, but that’s what she wanted him to do—draw out and conquer. She dives low when he swings at her and as she rolls, she nails him with a dart.

He drops, his body twitching. No, no, no.

My fault!

No. Her fault. She stands, giving me another of those smug smiles, my dagger still in her hand. “You were right, you know. You can’t be Fused with my Ashley. Which means we were wrong about the other Generals. We have to be wrong.”

Other Generals? Plural? “Wrong about what?”

She ignores me, saying, “I’m supposed to bring you in if at all possible. I don’t think it’s possible.”

The darts send electric pulses through every muscle in my body. It’s agony. Worse than anything Vans ever put me through. Before Many Ends, it would have overwhelmed me, and I might have tapped out.

My trials were my darkest hours, but now I’ll use them as the foundation of my triumph.

As Pearl raises the dagger, I push through the pain. My determination is unparalleled, the sun stroking over me, seeping into me...strengthening me? I manage to kick out my leg, knocking her feet out from under her. She falls, crash landing on a step. The pain grows worse, but my determination grows with it, the sun continuing to stroke me, warming me from the inside out. I’m able to reach up and yank the dart out of my neck.

She and I stand in unison, facing off. Another dart—two, three, four—sink into my flesh, and I drop to my knees. But only for a second. Only long enough to pull out each one and stand again.

Surprise and fear darken in her eyes. “You shouldn’t... No one should... How...”

The sun continues to stroke me as I bend down and pluck out the darts in Deacon. I keep my eyes on Pearl. “Your pride dragged you here while my determination carried me. I’m a force to be reckoned with, and today is the day of your reckoning.”

Backing away from me, she shouts, “Kill them! Kill Killian and Sloan.”

A moment of surprise. She’s flipped the script and changed her game play. I was the ultimate target, but because she’s at a disadvantage—despite the army surrounding her—she’s determined to strike at me any way possible.

I cast a panicked look at Deacon, who is still recovering. He’s gone a second later, reappearing in front of Sloan while I dive for Killian. Shots ring out as blinding white lights appear all over the plateau, all through the street, even in front of Killian and Sloan. Shells! An army from Troika!

Archer stops the shots from hitting Killian. Or rather, his sword does. In one hand, he holds a sword of mesmerizing blue-white fire. The one I’ve asked him about, the handle actually growing from his palm. In his other hand, he holds a shield, and with a crisscross motion of his arms, he either burns the darts and bullets—everything fired his way—or blocks them. Nothing gets past him. He remains unharmed, Killian saved from Second-death.

My relief knows no bounds. Nor does my irritation. “You’re late,” I say to Archer.

A slight smile teases the corners of his lips. “Actually, I’m right on time.”

Pearl is busy typing into the light in her wrist. Messaging for help?

I lumber to my feet, brush the dirt and pebbles from my palms. “You ready to hear my bargain now?” I don’t give her a chance to respond. “Let Killian and Sloan go, and you’ll live. Fight us, and you’ll die.”

“How about my bargain instead?” Behind her, other lights slam into the ground, new Myriad Shells appearing, each holding a crude-looking spear or bow and arrow. Guess the Generals don’t want us taking out one of their Leaders, even though she’s acting against orders. Or is she? They could want me dead, too, stories of Pearl going rogue nothing but lies for the people. “We fight, you die.”

An instant later, Shells dive on Shells. Weapons slash. Limbs fall.

I’m allowed only a glimpse of the carnage, a ring of Troikan warriors appearing around me. Each clutches a blue-white sword of flames, slashing at any projectiles that are fired in our direction as a swarm of Myriad Shells surround us. I’m Unsigned, and yet they’re protecting me as if I’m one of their own.

One of the Troikan soldiers falls, his Shell littered with arrows. Another warrior crouches down, gathers his friend close and vanishes in a beam of light. The others tighten the circle, and I wonder why the fallen Shell wasn’t ashed, the spirit inside freed. The arrows must make it impossible, like the collar Killian wears. Yes! That’s it. Killian once told me a story about a Troikan woman he killed. He trapped her spirit inside a Shell. She hemorrhaged to death, unable to escape.

How many are going to die today?

Is Killian being guarded as fiercely as me? Probably not. He’s on the other team. Then again, this Troikan army isn’t just here for me, but for two who should be their enemies.

Still. I can’t just sit here, doing nothing. Seeing no other recourse, I crawl out from between the legs of my protectors. Sorry, folks. Chaos reigns all around me, swords of fire swinging, body after body falling, ash floating on the breeze. Spears and arrows whiz past. More bodies fall and ash. Grunts, groans and screams create a macabre soundtrack. And that’s only what I can see and hear! No telling what’s happening with the spirits around us, invisible to humans.

I scramble as fast as I can, my prize in sight. A single warrior is guarding Killian and in this case, one is enough. Archer dazzles me with his skill. I’ve never seen him like this, a lethal savage, a weapon in his own right and a terrible beauty to behold. He doesn’t meet my gaze, but I know he knows I’m there, his every motion well-placed to prevent me from being grazed by the sword as I close the rest of the distance. Finally I’m in front of Killian and—I’m already crying. I’m crying so hard. He’s a mess, more so than I realized.

I cup his face and he uses up massive amounts of strength to lift his eyes. His irises...the beautiful gold is lighter than before and fading even now. I don’t have to be told what’s happening. He’s dying inside the Shell.

“I told you I’d come for you. I’m getting you out of here.” I tug at his collar to no avail. I press against every inch, searching for an open sesame. There isn’t one. “You’re going to heal. I’m going to doctor you up so gently you’ll swear I’ve been to medical school.”

I think he says, “Go,” but it’s hard to tell.

As I work at the fetters on his ankles, the heat singeing me, I say, “I’m staying put. Ten Lockwood isn’t leaving another man behind. Especially her man.”

By the time the cuffs snap open, my hands are covered in blisters. I meet his gaze, which is a little brighter now and full of determination—good, that’s good—before I turn my attention to his hands.

“Hurry.” Archer swings the sword this way and that, burning darts before they can soar past him. “The Myriad Shells are herding the humans into the line of fire, using them as shields.”

I know him. He can’t—won’t—harm a human.

I work as fast as I can, frantic, and finally Killian’s wrist cuffs open. With another moan, he sags against me. I ease him to the ground, place a soft kiss on his Lifeblood-stained lips and whisper, “This next part might hurt. I’m sorry.”