Bright silver light flares up all around us in a wide circle. Erebus, trapping us.

Across from me on the other side of the platform, Sel’s fingers are tensing and relaxing, reaching for his own aether by instinct, and not finding it.

My own root hasn’t shown itself yet—maybe because Erebus isn’t here to hurt me, exactly? Because my life isn’t threatened?

This is when I need to control my own abilities, I think. This moment. I can’t risk burning myself with Arthur’s aether, but armor’s not what I need right now anyway.

I need root.

I remember Jessie’s vision and hold my hand to my chest. The power I possess and the woman who gave it to me. The power I possess and the woman who gave it to me.

I imagine my mother’s face, her smile.

And nothing happens.

Her voice, her cool hands against my cheek.

Nothing.

Sel’s eyes find mine across the flickering light of Erebus’s aether closing in on us. The empathy on his face nearly breaks me. Neither of us can use our powers here.

Jessie showed me the way, and it’s not working.

“Briana, it would be so much easier if you would simply give up. I don’t want to drag you and Selwyn out by your ankles, but I will.” Erebus’s voice is flat, emotionless. Like he’s confident this is the end.

I dig deeper, curl my fingers inward, clawing my own sternum—

The power I possess.

The woman who gave it to me.

The power I possess—

Suddenly, Erebus’s voice fades. Time slows.

I take in a deep breath through my nose, and when I exhale, the flames of root blow to life in my hands, red and fierce. I extend my hands before I can talk myself out of it.

Sel’s eyes rise to mine, drop to my lit fingertips, then back up to me. I will him to understand, because I don’t know how to say what I want him to do. I don’t know how to ask for this, don’t even know if it will work.

But we have to try. It can’t end like this.

Sel reaches out, fingers stopping just short of my own. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, he closes his eyes, brows furrowed—and there is a tiny tugging sensation behind my sternum. Frustration darkens his face. He doesn’t think anything is happening, but I do. I can feel it.

I push the root out, open up the furnace a little more, let it burn hotter—and the flames on my hands arc to his fingertips, wrapping around each of them and flowing up his wrists. I visualize my root circling the cuffs like a layer of red heat.

Sel holds his breath.

Burn hotter, I think. Break them.