“You left me no choice.” My pulse quickens as I lift my eyes to Lyon’s, and in them, I see what I’m about to do.

“I had hoped it would not come to this,” he whispers.

A smile twitches on my face as Lyon raises his staff. The Guard at my side looks at me askance, stiffening as his eyes narrow on mine. He reaches for my wrists as he calls out to the other Guards, shouting a warning. With a quick sideways thrust of my arm, I catch him in the throat. The room explodes in a thunder of boots as he falls. Guards sprint toward the dais. Not to me, but to Gaia.

She whirls at the commotion, knocking over a shelf of cages as the Guards form a protective line in front of her. Her eyes skip to mine over their heads. She lunges toward us, but the Guards hold her back.

“No! Get back, Daniel!” Static crackles in her hair. Crows and insects flee their enclosures, a flurry of black wings.

I vault onto the dais, leaping out of reach as Lyon swings the scythe at my chest. I’ve trained in close combat for decades. I’ve fought and sparred in every condition, against every kind of Season, using every kind of weapon, but this . . . My limbs react with a precision and speed I’ve never had before, dodging Lyon’s next move as if my brain already knows what it will be. The stasis sickness is gone. Every shape and movement, even in my peripheral vision, is cut into sharp focus. My shackles are off. The room, my body, my fate . . . they finally feel like mine to control.

I kick out, catching Lyon in his abdomen between swings of the scythe. He crashes to the dais with enough force to crack the hardwood platform. The staff skitters across the floor. I dive for it, my arms a blur of speed as I grasp the handle. Rolling onto my back, I flip the scythe, raising the pointed foot like a spear. I brace myself as Lyon rushes toward me, too fast to stop what’s destined to happen.

Gaia screams as Lyon plunges into it.

His mouth parts, his jaw slack with shock as a red stain blooms out from the handle. My arms shake under his weight as he sags.

Lyon stares down at me, his eyes glassy and distant. Empty.

Blood trickles between his lips. “There is still time,” he says, his mouth forming words I can barely hear through Gaia’s screams and the shouts of the Guards, “to make the right choices.”

His chin droops. For a moment, all I can do is stare. What the hell does that even mean? I already made my choice—my only choice—didn’t I?