“Stop—” Séverin croaked.

Around them, the stones began to shake and quiver.

“It won’t work—” Séverin tried to say, but the words lodged in his throat.

Surely, it wouldn’t work.

Surely, it was something fundamentally about him and his will that made the lyre powerful.

Ruslan swiped his bloodied hand across the strings, and Séverin could do nothing but watch as one of those straight and shining strings bent beneath his stained, golden flesh.

At first, relief rushed through him.

Ruslan could not play the lyre … not even with his blood.

But the presence of Séverin’s blood on the strings had done something.

A low humming filled his ears. It bloomed outwards like a ribbon of ink in a glass of water. The air shimmered.

Overhead, the trees trembled, and tiny leaves rained onto the golden steps. The golden daggers dropped to the ground. Beside him, the dead Fallen House soldiers exhaled and crumpled.

“Laila!” cried Zofia.

No, thought Séverin. He threw his head back, desperate to see her. He caught a glimpse of Laila slumping forward, her head thudding on the stones.

“It’s working,” said Ruslan feverishly. “I knew it.”

Séverin threw off Ruslan’s boot, scrambling to his knees only for Ruslan to catch hold of him again.

Séverin knew he had screamed, but he could not hear it through the rushing sound of blood in his ears. The fragrance of orange perfume was gone, replaced with the smell of tears. His whole world reduced to the sight before him.

Laila sprawled on the ground, stirring weakly. Blood ran from her nose and ears, pooling on the stone steps. Hypnos cradled her head. Enrique looked at Séverin with a bleak stare.

No. This is not what I was promised.

The lyre had not worked how he imagined, but it was still his. Still his power. He saw Zofia fall to her knees, grabbing at her necklace in disbelief.

Her Tezcat pendant shone.

“Wait,” he heard himself saying. “There must be a portal on the staircase! I can play the lyre, I can fix this—”

A cold shadow fell across him. Ruslan released him with a shove, laughing hysterically. Sound rushed in, and Séverin heard the creaking sound of rocks displaced.

A metallic scream ripped through the air as the stone automatons twisted their necks. The dull, metallic spheres of their eyes glowed brightly. A voice in a language he did not speak, but nonetheless knew roared at them.

This is not the hand we answer to—thieves. THIEVES.

The automatons swung up their arms, their rocky fists uprooting a copse of trees—

Séverin lunged forward, grabbing the lyre from Ruslan, careful not to disturb the strings. Even so, the rush of air against the shining instrument sent a high-pitched quiver through the sanctum. The thunderous crackle of ancient branches collided with the metal as dirt and debris rained down from the sky.

“Grab Laila!” shouted Séverin. “There’s a Tezcat up ahead! It will take us to the top of the temple, I know it! We just have to keep going!”