Something intangible at my center wrenches apart, searing heat cauterizing my insides; but I stop sinking. The great ocean of the Corrupter froths and surges, but within him, my consciousness reverses course. The pressure in my chest is suffocating, and my heartbeat strobes behind my eyes … but now, suddenly, I’m the one who’s Rising.

“Steigoawa nāmante draugo!” Those sparks break the surface of my skin in a rush, bursting into the air, and the glow around me intensifies. Pins and needles stab my fingertips, pressure mounting behind my eyes, and my chest burns like it’s filled with hot coals. Just as I fear I’m going to black out, there’s another vicious tug at that unseen part of me, and the force compressing my lungs lets go.

I suck down air in ragged gulps, my head spins … but it’s me breathing, not Azazel. My arms and legs are still frozen, and I feel him clinging to me—but the spell is working.

“Kulamāje maljo draugo. Skaro anmenndho draugo. Steigoawa nāmante draugo!”

My head snaps back, jaws open, and sparks geyser from my throat, the air filling with the odor of brimstone and burnt hair. Memories that aren’t mine blitz through me—an armored king felled in battle, a queen paraded to the guillotine, a girl trapped in a basement stinking of gunpowder—and I gasp for oxygen. Inside myself, I begin to expand.

The air swirls faster, dust and paper scraps dancing as the witches chant louder, their expressions taut. Azazel is pulled further away, but he pours his visions into my mind. I see my parents huddled in the back of Hope’s car, Adriana behind the wheel, terrified, wondering where her girlfriend is. I see Jude and Gunnar sprinting back to the battlefield, racing each other, their relationship more complicated than ever.

“Kulamāje maljo draugo, skaro anmenndho draugo, steigoawa nāmante draugo!”

His consciousness is crushing, too great for me to process. I relive dozens of lives in a single moment; I see countless potential futures. In one, Azazel presides as emperor of a scorched planet, hordes of emaciated undead crawling its surface; in another, mankind ruins the Earth with no help at all; but in yet another, Viviane’s dream comes true—we save ourselves and prosper. We all become Chosen Ones. We all rise to the challenge.

“Kulamāje maljo draugo, skaro anmenndho draugo, steigoawa nāmante draugo!”

The light around me is nearly blinding now, density gathering in its shifting center as the witches continue to chant. With a ripping sensation, my tongue is freed from its paralysis. I realize in amazement that this is the Corrupter—this thrashing, spectral glow leaving my body in increments is the very enemy I’ve been fighting. Sucking in another breath, I start chanting as well, pushing against Azazel with everything I’ve got.