The Midnight Star (The Young Elites #3)(14)

Maeve manages to bring her sword up in time—the blade cuts deep into one of his hands. Tristan snarls and lunges at her again and again. He is shockingly strong. It is as if all the force of the Underworld has now crawled under his skin, aching to throw itself at her. The tether between them tugs painfully tight, and Maeve shudders.

When Tristan strikes again, Augustine appears between them and brings his sword up to protect his sister. Tristan growls—his arm moves in a blur of motion, grabbing the dagger tucked at Augustine’s belt—and he turns on his older brother. Despite the younger’s smaller frame, his attack knocks Augustine off balance. Both fall to the ground in a shower of dirt.

Maeve winces as the threads between her and Tristan pull taut again. The pain makes her light-headed. Through her blurry vision, she sees Augustine fighting desperately to keep away Tristan’s dagger. She reaches within, searching for the strings binding them that are hooked within her heart, the strings that keep Tristan alive and under her control. She hesitates again. A memory of Tristan, before his accident, before she brought him back, flashes in her mind—a smiling, laughing boy, the brother who could never seem to stop talking even when she would shove him lovingly away, the brother who liked to surprise her in the tall grasses and go on long hunts with her and Lucent.

This is not Tristan, she suddenly allows herself to think as she looks at the creature attacking Augustine.

Finally, Augustine manages to flip Tristan down to the ground. He takes his sword and aims it over his brother’s heart. Tristan spits at him, but even then, Augustine hesitates. His sword trembles in midair.

Taking advantage of the moment, Tristan stabs up with his blade.

No. Maeve moves before she can even think. She lunges forward, shoving Augustine out of danger’s way, and plunges her own sword straight into Tristan’s chest.

Tristan lets out a terrible gasp. The dark pools of his eyes shrink away in an instant, leaving a wide-eyed, confused boy. He blinks twice, looks down at the blade protruding from his chest, and then follows it up to where Maeve stands above him, his stare settling on her for the first time.

Maeve reaches out instinctively for the tether that links them, but now, she senses it fading away. Tristan continues to stare at her for what seems like forever. She feels as if she could read the look in his eyes. Her lips part in a silent sob.

Then, with a sigh, Tristan closes his eyes—the glimmer of light remaining in his soul, the imitation of a life that once was, finally flickers out—and he falls dead to the ground.





When the bugles sounded across the sea, still he ignored them.

When the cavalry reached the gates, still he slept.

When his people cried out, still he called for calm.

Even when the enemy swept his kingdom with fire

and gathered at his castle doors, he paced in his chamber,

refusing to believe it.

—The Second Fall of Persenople, by Scholar Natanaele





Adelina Amouteru




Memories are funny things. My first recollection of Teren remains crystal clear even to this day—that shining white cloak, a silhouette washed in light by the sun on a brilliant blue day, the profile of a chiseled face, a slender tail of wheat-colored hair wrapped in gold hanging past his shoulders, his hands folded behind his back. How intimidating he looked. Even now, as I stare at this figure lying in chains, dressed like a prisoner, slivers of light now outlining the sinews of his muscles, I can’t help but see that first image of him instead.

Sergio leads us forward to the moat. When he reaches it, he leans down to the water and pulls up a rope bridge anchored to the floor. He tosses it to the two soldiers on the island. One of the soldiers hooks the other end of the bridge to two knobs on the island’s floor, and Sergio steps onto the bridge. I follow him.

When we reach the island, Sergio and the other soldiers spread out to either side, giving me a clear path. I walk forward, stopping several paces from where Teren is chained.

“Hello,” I say.

Teren stays crouching on the ground, his eyes fixed on me. He doesn’t blink. Instead, he looks on as if he were drinking in the sight of me. His clothes have indeed been replaced by a clean set of robes, and his hair is tied back, his face smooth. He is thinner now, even though time has not worn down the chiseled look of his face or the hard lines of his muscles. He says nothing more. Something is wrong with Teren. I look him over, puzzled.

“You look well enough,” I say. I tilt my head slightly at him. “Less filthy than when I last visited you. You’ve been eating and drinking.” There were several weeks when he refused all food, when I thought he might intentionally starve himself to death. But he is still here.

He says nothing.

“I hear you’ve not been well,” I continue. “Does the great Teren ever fall ill? I didn’t think that was possible, so I came to see you with my own ey—”

Without warning, Teren lunges for me. His heavy chains do not slow him down. They pull taut just short of where I am, and for an instant, we stare into each other’s faces, breaths apart. My past visits taught me where to stand safely, but even so—my heart leaps into my throat. Behind me, I hear Sergio and the other soldiers draw their swords.

“Then have a good, long look, little malfetto,” Teren growls. “Do you enjoy what you see?” He cocks his head in a taunting gesture. “What is it these days, Adelina? Queen of the Sealands?”