Sofia let out a muffled groan, her small frame jerking against the ropes. She twisted, wrists raw from struggling, but the bindings didn’t give. Gabriela looked tired and covered in dust. Her hands were covered in chalk dust, and a smear of that same dust was on her cheek.

The ritual circles surrounding Gabriela and Sofia were precise in their simplicity. White chalk against dark stone, five red-flamed candles placed evenly around each, and the Warlord’s symbol—a sword—drawn near every candle. But the arrangement held deeper meaning.

Sofia’s circle invited the god in; her swords faced inward. Gabriela’s did the opposite. A single chalk line connected them, a tether of magic and intent.

Lucia had explained this before, back when she’d prayed to Rowan. A lifetime ago, or at least it felt that way. Breaking the circle outright would unleash lethal backlash, but tricking Gabriela—convincing her to sabotage the ritual herself—was possible.

Michael brought his gun around and leveled it at Rowan.

Sofia’s scream from behind the gag was audible—she was losing her fight with the warlord, who would overwhelm her mind and steal her body. What child’s mind could stand against the might of a god?

Rowan loosed chaos into the world, a ripple that bent the circles ever so slightly—just enough to make them seem off-kilter, like reality had shifted half a step sideways. Subtle but potent, twisting perception itself. He layered the illusion carefully—just enough to make it seem like reality was shifting under his magic’s weight. The circles on the ground rippled and stretched like ink bleeding across paper.

To anyone not in the astral, nothing appeared different. But to those who could sense magic, it was wrong in a way they couldn’t quite place.

Sofia let out a sob.

“He did something to the circles,” Victor snapped.

Gabriela’s eyes flicked open, but she couldn’t stop chanting. She was committed now. Any disruption would be fatal. There was pain behind her eyes like she was now straining against a force beyond her ability to withstand.

Then, the tiger appeared.

A massive shape, mid-air, all muscle and fury. Michael pulled the trigger.

Pain bloomed hot in Rowan’s gut. Another shot—his shoulder this time. A third—fire lanced across the side of his face, his right eye going dark. He collapsed, the vision in his remaining eye tunneling. But he still saw Gretta land, her paw crushing Michael into the stone floor. Bone shattered. Blood pooled.

Rowan coughed, forcing himself to stay conscious. No time for pain.

Victor fired three shots in quick succession, but they passed harmlessly through empty space as Gretta slipped back into the astral. He swore.

The magic of the ritual surged forward, flames flaring. The air thickened, electric with divine presence.

Rowan’s illusion shattered. The circles had warped, moving the swords inside Gabriela’s circle and the swords of Sofia’s outside. The magic of the ritual twisted in on itself, its intent forcibly rewritten.

Gabriela’s voice hitched, her chant faltering for just a breath. A crack in the foundation. Her eyes locked on Rowan, confusion warring with the inevitability she had resigned herself to. And then, something in her expression broke.

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“No—” she choked out.

Rowan could see the choice written on her face: let the ritual fail and hope to survive, or bring Marcus back at the cost of her own mind.

She closed her eyes and whispered, “Take me.”

The candles flared, then died. The air rushed inward. And then, Marcus was there.

Not just a whisper of power or a flicker of presence—Marcus tore his way through the void and into Gabriela’s body. Her spine arched violently, a gasp escaping her lips before her body stilled. Her eyes burned scarlet, and bloody tears traced down her cheeks. He looked down at his own hands, and realization crossed his face.

Labored breathing was the only sound in the room as a moment passed.

“You destroyed my mother,” Marcus roared. His voice slammed into Rowan like a shockwave, driving him and Michael’s corpse against the wall.

Rowan wheezed. Talking hurt. Existing hurt. With effort, he managed something close to a grin. “Thought she was just a useful tool.”

Marcus stalked forward, wearing Gabriela’s body, conjuring a glowing spear. “She was my mother.” His voice was low, but murder gleamed in his eyes.

Rowan felt the building of backlash. He had altered reality with chaos. Now, the backlash was coming. No one can upset the universe's balance without consequences—not even a god.

Victor still stood in the corner, gun lowered, sweat slicking his face. His hesitation cost him. Gretta materialized mid-strike, claws raking across his gut. His gun spun out of reach. She bit into his shoulder and shook. He screamed.

Marcus turned, spear raised.

“Watch out,” Rowan rasped, barely audible.

The spear launched. Gretta vanished just before it struck. Victor wasn’t so lucky. The weapon impaled him, pinning him to the wall. The metal hissed as it seared through flesh and bone. His scream cut off into a wet gurgle.

The backlash coiled around him, an unseen force twisting tighter and tighter, ready to snap. Rowan had just hoped he’d be on the other side of the room when it hit. The backlash hummed in the air, the universe pulling back, ready to snap into balance.

Marcus grinned, pivoting back toward Rowan. “Where were we?”

Gretta’s eyes met Rowan’s momentarily, the shared desperation palpable. She launched herself at Marcus.

Rowan saw the trap too late. “No—” he whispered.

Marcus was already moving. He twisted, meeting her mid-air, and drove his spear clean through her throat. She hit the ground, skidding to a stop in a limp heap.

Rowan knew it was too late to move and lacked the strength to hold back the tide of power.

Marcus grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up. The pain was too much. His body wanted to shut down.

“Speak up, little doggie.” Marcus’s tone was mockingly light.

Rowan’s lips curled. “Catch.”

And the backlash hit.

A surge of order magic exploded outward. The world lurched. The air cracked. The ground trembled. Huge, geometric shards of stone—raw, physical manifestations of forced balance—plummeted from above.

Marcus barely had time to react before the first spear of granite fell. He dropped Rowan, raising a hand to conjure a shield. Metal flared to life around him in a dome of protection.

Rowan, however, had no such defense. The universe did not play favorites. His last thoughts were of Sofia, still bound, still fighting, and of Gretta, unmoving. Then, the weight of the world fell. He fought to retain his consciousness even through the destruction of his body.

The sheer force of the backlash whisked Rowan’s soul through the void and on a collision course toward a domain of brilliant white light. He tried to muster the strength to shift to raven form—the only way he had managed to navigate the void so far, but magic was beyond him. He was simply too exhausted from working so much magic in such a short time.

There was the breaking of glass, more falling, and then the sudden impact of landing on steel. Instantly, a latticework of crystal sprung up around him. The moment they sealed, he felt utterly cut off from magic. He noticed symbols etched into the crystal that vaguely resembled those he had seen through Gretta’s eyes when she was escaping from the FBI. These were different because even chaos magic was cut off.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Ellie’s white hair flowed down over her pure white gown, and she brushed it back, smiling. “Comfortable?”

Rowan let out a groan and rolled over onto his back. “I hope there’s room service.”

“Make jokes.” She smirked. “This time, there is no escape. You’re exactly where you belong.”