He’s already out of my reach. Enchanted to a hundred years of sleep. If it were mortal magic, maybe I could break the spell, but Eislyn is a fairy, and their magic is different, incompatible.

Even if the spell could be broken, I’m dying. Beyond that, Memnon’s empire is now overrun by battle-ready Romans, his traitorous warriors, and a scheming fairy.

We have too many enemies and not enough time. A tear slips out.

I place a hand lightly on the ruined flesh of my abdomen. I want retribution, but more than anything, I want peace. For me, for my soul mate. A single lifetime where we can love each other without the fear of our enemies killing us.

I struggle to pull myself up, gnashing my teeth together against the pain. There’s darkness pulling at my vision, and at this point, my magic is likely the only thing left keeping it at bay, but I do manage to get my legs locked under me. I’ve got life left in me yet.

I glance once more into the coffin, where Memnon rests, still as death. Not even his chest moves with his breathing. I can tell through our bond that he still clings to life, but he gives few signs of it.

I stroke his hair back, drops of my blood and tears hitting his armor.

“This is not how we end,” I whisper. “We are eternal.”

Something dark and resolute moves through me.

We are eternal.

If we cannot have this life, then we shall have another.

Eislyn isn’t the only one capable of using extraordinary measures.

I am as well.

And whatever spell she’s placed on Memnon, I can make one stronger. It might not break the enchantment he’s under, but it can usurp it.

Some final fire stirs in me, rousing me.

I can do this, for him, for us.

I must.

I just need a little help.

My grip on the sarcophagus tightens as I draw my magic together. There’s precious little power left in me and nothing my body wants to give up. But there are other sources of magic—in the air and, more notably, in the ground. The earth is already feasting on the trail of blood I’ve left. I can sense the magic beneath me clamoring for it. Hungry.

There are things that rule that magic, things that have whispered to me every so often. They might be willing to help me cast a spell of the magnitude I need…but they always exact a price.

I bow my head over the sarcophagus and draw the words out. “I call on any god who will answer: Memnon the Indomitable shall sleep the sleep of immortals. And he shall awake only by my hand. I bind my soul to this vow. Even in death, I shall be beholden to it. Take what you must to make it so.”

For several moments, all I hear is the soft, reverent hiss of the torches. Just when I’m nearly sure the spell didn’t work, a low moan starts up in the distance, rattling the torches in their sconces. It builds into a howling wind that tears through the room, blowing my hair back. As it moves through me, I feel it pull away bits of my essence. The blood on my skin vanishes, as do the tears on my cheeks. Something dark and hungry slips inside me through my wounds, and I gasp at the insidious intrusion.

Once this essence is in me, it begins to spread. I choke on my own breath, my hand going to my abdomen. Whatever god answered my plea, it’s named its price. I can feel it feasting on what’s left of my life.

The unearthly wind circles the room several times, then sweeps out, gone just as quickly as it came. The pain eating me from the inside out, however, is still there.

I stagger, struggling to catch my breath. I lean against the sarcophagus, my eyes drawn back to Memnon.

Always Memnon.

Beautiful, monstrous Memnon.

I touch his cheek, my fingers slipping a little. “We will get another life. A better one,” I promise.

I lean into the sarcophagus, ignoring the way my body screams in protest, and press a kiss to his lips. They’re still warm.

I pull away, my mouth lingering right above his. “I will find you again, my king. I am eternally yours.”

I can feel hot tears slipping from my eyes as I straighten. All I want is to crawl inside that coffin and spend my last few moments with him. It would be a good place to die.

Unfortunately, if I mean to see this through, I can’t do that.

I lift a trembling hand, my breath ragged as I force my reluctant magic to lift the coffin lid into the air. I shift it over the sarcophagus and gently lay it down.

Another tear drips, and I can feel my lower lip quivering with sadness and exhaustion. My tired eyes rest on the inscription carved into the top.

For the love of your gods, beware of me.

Memnon the Cursed

It’s a terrible epitaph to leave him with—not that it’s inaccurate—but it will scare off almost anyone who can read it. But in case it won’t, I will need to ward it.

Just the thought of doing so is daunting. I splay my hand over the lid, preparing to wrangle more magic. Yet when I call it forth, my power surges forward, stronger than ever.

A gift from the unnamed god.

I bite my lip to keep from crying out my relief. Though my mind is addled with pain and encroaching death, the ward I cast is strong; the many threads of it have a smooth sheen. As soon as I finish it, another forms and another, until my focus becomes the room at large. This too requires a ward.

I move around the coffin, though my legs don’t feel as though they’ll keep me upright. That noxious presence is spreading, withering me away from the inside out.

Something presses against my legs, and when I glance down, I realize it’s Ferox. At some point, my familiar dragged himself off the ground and ventured into this cursed tomb to find me. He leans against me now, his eyes large, concerned.

I place a hand on his head. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper brokenly. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

He pushes his nose into my palm, nudging it, as though demanding reassurance. I run a hand down his black fur.

“I release you, Ferox,” I say. “You shall not be bound by my curse,” I say, invoking my magic and weaving it into my words. “With my death, our bond shall sever, and you shall be free.”

He hisses at me then, as though I have committed some great and terrible act.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, my throat tightening. “You were always too good for me.”

He growls, like even my apology displeases him.

I stagger over to a wall and lean heavily against it.

More spells seep from my palms, coating the room in pale looping threads like some shoddily woven garment.

I heave from the effort, my bones aching, brittle. So tired.

Cannot give up now. Not when the biggest spell is yet to come. It’s a race against this thing inside me. Gods may occasionally be benevolent, but they are almost never merciful. Particularly not the bloodthirsty ones. I doubt this god will extend my life longer than they see fit.

I struggle up the stairs, and though Ferox is obviously still mad at me, he presses his body against mine to prevent me from falling.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice weakening.

The two of us make our way out, the overcast sky so much brighter than the dim room we were in. Once we’re outside, I turn around and lift my arm, my tears coming faster. Leaving Memnon in there feels like a betrayal all on its own, like another knife sunk into my flesh.

I straighten my spine, drawing on my will.

“Seal the opening.” The stone covering slides over the…tomb’s entrance, then with a thud sinks into place.

Ferox makes a low, baleful noise, scratching at the stone like he can unearth it. I have to stifle another sob, drowning in sorrow.

My heart seems to skip a beat, then stall. After a terrifying few moments, it begins to thump again.

I have precious little time left to commit one final spell. A curse that will eclipse Eislyn’s magic with my own.