A cut. A cut. A cut.

Do you want to see how cruel I can be? I will show you.

Hibla fell before me, a stump of a creature. She was done.

A man lunged onto the walkway, tall and thin, the magic flowing to him. I had felt that same magic before, just before three silver chains shot out of him and pinned Aunt B to the ground. I dragged Hibla’s dagger against my bleeding side and hurled it at the mage. It bit into his throat. I sparked the magic in my blood and the blade erupted into a dozen sharp spikes, puncturing the mage’s throat from within. His eyes rolled back into his skull. He crashed down.

I looked back at the bleeding piece of meat that used to be Hibla. She couldn’t hurt any more than she hurt already. I swung my sword and watched her head topple off her shoulders. I should’ve just left her there to suffer, but I had things to do.

I could feel Curran watching me from the doorway. I wasn’t alone. He was there with me, like a rock I could lean on. I leaned on that stare and looked up.

The dais was almost in front of me. I wiped Sarrat on my jeans and took a step forward. A wall of red pulsed in front of me. A blood ward. My father had sealed the dais with his blood. If I broke it, no person in this room would have any doubt I was his daughter.

My father’s gaze fixed on me.

It was too late to turn back. I had a sword and he was feet away. My entire life had been spent working up to this moment. I could do this. I was the daughter of Nimrod, the Great Hunter, the Builder of Towers, Hero of His People and Scourge of His Enemies. My father’s kingdom and those like it had brought about the cataclysm that purged magic from the world.

I thrust my bloody hand into the ward. It shuddered like a living thing caught in convulsions and solidified into a translucent wall of red. The people behind me screamed. The wall cracked and shattered into chunks. The pieces of the ward rained down, melting into thin air.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt at all.

Magic spread from my father. It rose behind him like wings, like a hurricane pulled apart into shreds that could condense into a devastating storm at any second. The barrier of the blood ward had been containing it, but now the ward was broken and I felt every iota of Nimrod’s power. I forgot to breathe.

My grandmother was not completely dead, but she wasn’t alive, not in the true sense of the word. My father was alive. Semiramis’s magic had terrified me to the bone, but against this storm, her power was a mere shadow, a candle caught in the blinding glow of an industrial floodlight. It was the kind of power that could pick up chunks of skyscrapers and fuse them into Mishmar.