There was another difference between them. The power of deiat roared through Maya, driving her onward, filling her with the limitless fire of the sun. Whatever force animated Gyre’s arcana came from within. And that meant it would run out.

Maya gave a savage grin. Ghoul weapons are no match for the might of the Chosen.

The green glow in Gyre’s false eye flickered, dimmed. His movements faltered, just for a moment, and Maya pounced. She thrust, a simple attack, and he avoided it as she expected, slipping to one side. At the last moment, her haken twisted, catching his blade in a bind, and with an expert flip of her wrist she tore it from his grasp. The silver sword landed with a clang and skittered across the stones, and Gyre fell to his knees, her haken leveled at his throat. The green in his eye dimmed again, and he gasped for breath.

“I don’t want to hurt you either,” Maya said quietly. “You’re my big brother. You always protected me.”

“Not always,” Gyre said. Sweat dripped from his forehead. “Not when it mattered.”

“Why, Gyre? Why go this far? This is monstrous; you have to know that.”

“The Order took everything from me,” Gyre said. “They took my eye. They took my family.” He looked up at her, real eye thick with tears. “They took my little sister, and they turned her into you.”

For a long moment, Maya didn’t know what to say. Then, finally, it came to her, the words that would fix everything, that would bring her brother home again.

She opened her mouth to speak, and searing pain lanced through her.

Chapter 26

“They took my little sister,” Gyre said, “and they turned her into you.”

He looked up at Maya. His little sister, gap-toothed and grinning, begging for apple pudding. A powerful young woman standing in front of him, sheathed in dried blood, her brilliant red hair hanging limp with sweat, breathing hard. And, between them, a bar of white fire, like a broken shard of the sun.

His words had hurt her, he could see it in her face. She’d never been any good at hiding her feelings. He’d meant them to hurt, his hand still stinging where she’d disarmed him. He was on his knees in front of her, in spite of all he’d sacrificed, everyone he’d left broken and damaged in his wake, in spite of everything. Words didn’t matter, because she was strong and he was weak. But it was all he had, and he dredged for what he thought would hurt her most.

I’m sorry. He wanted to say it, but his lips wouldn’t move. He could have apologized to his sister. But not to a centarch. His body felt heavy, slow, as the energy bottle at his side gave up the last dregs of its power.