A crack cuts through the air and the protective dome above us cracks like an egg. I summon that familiar heat; magic swirls in my hands.

“Jelani,” Jhamal says, his clammy hands curling around my wrist. As if the sweat on his palms is just as much about me as what we’re all up against. The last time we were together, my lips were pressed to his. Aching churns in me for the simplicity of that moment again. The moment of peace and comfort it gave me. Especially amidst so much loss.

I rub his hand on mine and his eyes soften. But the moment is interrupted when a glassy chunk of the barrier falls from the sky like a jagged piece of hail. A rip slides down the side of the barrier, its glass splitting in two.

“It’s going to fall in any moment.”

The Chancellor practically salivates, a crack widening right in front of him. It’s time.

“I have to,” I say, tugging my hand from Jhamal.

“I’ll come with you,” he says.

He doesn’t have magic. He can play defense only.

“No,” I say. “Not if you don’t have to.”

He tucks his lip and nods. I hold on to his fingers as long as I can before letting go and leaving him there.

I step from the clustered jpango, and the Chancellor’s eyes snap to me like a magnet, the cracking glass splintering the image of his face. The gap in the barrier widens, its edges being chiseled away by Patrol’s magic. Delight curls his lips and my fingers twinge with heat.

Minutes. I have minutes.

I picture my magic slicing through him, ripping his stolen power from his bare hands. I close an eye to gauge my vantage point, the split second I’ll have.

Crack.

I straighten. I just need one clean shot. One. I swallow. Magic pools in my wrists as the Chancellor holds a hand at the ready, waiting to signal his men. Bits of glass fall to the ground like snow.

The crack widens.

My heart beats in my throat.

Magic jitters through me and I tremble for fear I might burst. Everything my father died for, my mother was sacrificed for, amounts to this moment. This man.

Crack.

The final pieces of the barrier fall, shattering like glass. A cloud of dust surrounds us from the impact. I cough, lifting my hands. Weapon and shield in hand, Jhamal suddenly frees himself from the brush, armored in a gold breastplate lined with bits of fur, and sticks to my heels.

No! Dammit, Jhamal.

With no time to yell at him I turn back to the task at hand.

“Aim,” I say, squeezing an eye shut, the Chancellor’s head in my sights.

His men’s arms raise in unison, all pointed at me.