Feren laughed hysterically. She couldn’t defeat him. She didn’t have the levels, the power! Cara retreated a dozen paces, backing away from the figures moving through the Ashwheat. The rain was still falling and she almost slipped. Sidheag took a breath—and stopped singing. Yet she refused to run.

“No. Not this time.”

The falling rain pattered down around her. The captive dead shambled through the swaying dark wheat over their homeland. The [Necromancer] laughed, losing his grip on his soul.

Enough. So the [Singer] opened her mouth. And sang one last song.

“Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti. Beatae Mariae semper Virgini. Beato Michaeli archangelo. Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis.”

The reaching dead slowed, faltering. Feremont’s laughter died. He faltered, staring at Sidheag.

“What—what words are those?”

He had never heard the words Cara was singing before. It was a language not of this world. A dead language. A prayer for the deceased.

A song of heaven for the dead. They waited, wavering between his power and hers, eyes blazing with the light of the damned. The [Necromancer] tried to control them. But the song…he felt a terrible fear and turned to run.

“No, no!”

He ran. The [Singer] walked after him. Her song called the dead forwards, cutting off the man’s escape.

And then—calling something else into existence.

A spark of light. Fire. A little wisp of it. It landed on the wet Ashwheat and sizzled. But then another appeared.

And another. The wet field did not want to burn. The rain was still falling, a wet drizzle.

But the song consumed her. The fire appeared as Sidheag sang. It bloomed along the first stalk of wheat, a hot, righteous flame. Afiele’s crops welcomed the flame. It caught—and more flame began to burn.

Spreading. Following Feremont.

Hellfire, a song just for him.

The field smoldered. Smoke rose as more flames dried the water. Began to ignite the wheat. The

[Necromancer] screamed, dodging the fire, but it was spreading faster than he could run.

Sidheag sang, changing the words of the song.

The flames grew. Spreading around her. It burned Sidheag and the man. But she refused to let him flee.

The Ashwheat turned into a bonfire in seconds, despite the rain. Black wheat turned into an inferno. It spread around the two of them. She was burning, like him. The heat blistered her skin, and it was only beginning to grow. Yet she kept singing. Kept walking.

He would not run. Nor would she.

Sidheag found Feremont in a clearing, the undead blocking his escape. Zombies. People of Afiele, eyes glowing bright. Reaching for him, refusing to let him run.

On the other side, behind Sidheag, was a wall of fire, advancing slowly. Death and flame boxing the two in. Sidheag saw the man. He turned to her, begged for his life.

Like he still had a soul. He had, once. She had seen it.