Arthur gritted his teeth and parried, bringing the sword overhead only to meet an invisible blade again. Still, he pressed forward.

A clap of thunder sounded, and the soft patter of rain filled the cave. Not just the sound, but the smell of it too, soft and damp and earthy.

The doorway to Anwen was open.

Morgana twisted around, distracted by the doorway, and Arthur took that moment to close the distance between them and press the tip of his sword to her throat.

“Let my wizard go,” Arthur commanded.

Morgana merely watched him, an amused curl to her lips as his blade dug into her skin, forming a small trickle of blood.

“We both know you won’t do it,” she goaded, unflinching.

His hands shook as he stared down the length of the blade at Morgana. She had their mother’s eyes exactly. Soft brown with the barest flecks of green.

“Yes, I will,” Arthur insisted.

After all, she had sworn she would kill him. And his father. She had killed the elder Merlin, and was torturing Emry. But still, he hesitated.

He knew the Lady of the Lake hadn’t given him this sword so it could cure hangovers. Excalibur was the sword of a killer. His hand shook, and the blade trembled against her throat.

Do it, he urged himself, but he held back, even as Morgana brought a jeweled dagger out from beneath her cloak.

She plunged it into his stomach with a savage twist.

Arthur gasped as the pain tore through him. He stumbled back, falling to the ground, his sword skittering away. The room spun, and he fought to stay conscious.

“I told you.” Morgana tutted.

Arthur coughed wetly, reaching for Excalibur. His fingers scraped against the hilt, and he gritted his teeth, scrambling for purchase. He almost had it. He turned his head toward the altar, toward Emry. She stared back at him, her eyes glistening with fear.

“Arthur,” she whispered, her voice not so much breaking as already broken.

He had come to save her. And he wasn’t about to give up now.

“Catch,” he gasped.

And with the last of his strength, he pushed the sword to her.

CHAPTER 47

Emry braced herself against the pain as the stone sucked greedily at her magic, pinning her hand in place. Her throat was dry, and her heart pumped frantically, and her body felt like a well nearly emptied of water. But she still stretched toward the binding symbol Morgana had inked at the very edge of the altar.

The two triangles, their tips pressed together, bisected by a line.

If only she could scratch off an edge, the spell would release, and she’d be able to use her magic again. To close the door to Anwen.

But no matter how hard she stretched, it was out of reach.