Chaos erupts. I jolt as a pulse of electricity surges through the staff. My hands fuse around the metal, my elbows locked and trembling as Lyon’s magic flows into me, too late to let go. The charred taste of smoke fills my mouth. My right eye burns like it’s on fire. My head falls back and I choke on a scream.

Tears stream down my cheek with every blink. The room blurs, my perspective suddenly all wrong. The room smells like war, like blood and fear and confusion as the Guards in the hall burst through the doors. They jerk to a stop, shielding their eyes from the bright final flare of light that courses through the staff. The pulsing static dies and the room falls quiet, my hands still frozen around the frosted handle of the scythe. The last four members of the old Guard rush in, chains clanking as they grind to a halt.

I drop the smoking handle. Lyon tumbles to the floor, ash already flaking from his shoulders.

Gaia falls to her knees as he crumbles and turns to dust.

Pain throbs behind my right eye. I cup it, hand shaking as I trace the warped flesh with my fingers. Snatching up the staff, I angle the blade toward my face. A sunken black hole stares back at me from the metal.

I cover the burned socket, the words Kai said to me in the pool rattling in my head. . . .

Stolen magic is cursed magic . . . you inherit their weaknesses and faults . . .

No. That’s a lie. Lyon never lost his eye. That’s just a story stupid librarians preach to keep Seasons in line.

A charge pulses through the room, the air taking on the dense electric tang of an approaching storm. The Guards surrounding Gaia fall back, scrambling away on hands and knees. Her hair lifts with static, like a nest of writhing silver snakes.

“What have you done!” The ground rolls out from her like a wave and sends me reeling. I rush to my feet, backing away from the raw power coming off her. I’ve never seen Gaia like this. Completely unhinged. It was the same way Fleur had looked at Michael in the vision Lyon showed me—like she would tear open the earth and unleash hell with her bare hands.

“Stay back!” I point the scythe at Gaia as she advances. When she doesn’t stop, I swing. The blade hisses through the air, leaving a shallow cut in the waist of her dress. She pauses just beyond its reach, her cheeks flushed and her diamond eyes furious.

A wooden beam in the ceiling groans. The Guards, old and new, throw out their arms for balance, watching the walls and the ceiling as the ground rumbles. They turn to Gaia, as if they’re waiting for some command from her.