For a moment, the knight didn’t recognize Sir Draven. Beneath his helm was hardly a face at all. Skin had been peeled away, leaving glistening patches of exposed sinew devoid of features. Fresh blood ran from the exposed tissue and down his neck, swallowed greedily by his armor.

  “You’ve turned her against me!” Sir Draven said, his voice like dragon’s breath.

  The fury lasted only a moment. The knight saw the shift—a tremor in his voice, a flicker in his ruined face. Sir Draven looked from Marigold to the knight and shook his head.

  “You’ve left me no choice,” he said, pointing his blade at the knight’s neck.

  “You can’t see it?” the knight asked.

  “I see plenty,” Sir Draven replied, though he lowered the sword a finger’s width.

  “Your face,” the knight said. “Do you not feel it?”

  Sir Draven lifted an armored hand and ran his fingertips through the exposed tendons of his cheek. He neither flinched nor lingered. He simply pulled his hand away and studied the blood as if he didn’t recognize it for what it was.

  “Your armor,” the knight said quietly. “It’s killing you.”

  Marigold stirred.

  Sir Draven turned at once and rushed to her, kneeling beside her. He reached to help her up. She took his hand—then recoiled when she saw his face.

  “No. Don’t touch me,” she said, disgust staining every word.

  “My princess,” Sir Draven said softly. “My love.”

  “I’m not yours!” Marigold shouted, pushing herself away with her heels. She looked at the knight. “Please. You must stop him.”

  The knight forced himself upright, his head pounding, but collapsed again the moment he put weight on his arms. Pain tore outward from the wound in his chest.

  “Do you see?” he asked through sharp breaths. “Your armor… that helm… it lies to you.”

  Sir Draven laughed, tight and brittle.

  “You take me for a fool.”

  “No,” the knight said.

  Sir Draven’s ruined face twisted between rage and fear.

  “This can’t be,” he murmured. The sword slipped from his hand.

  Marigold seized it at once and slid toward the knight, placing herself between them. She lifted the blade and pointed it at Sir Draven. It trembled in her grip.

  “Don’t touch him,” she said.

  “Please,” the knight said. “Surely you see it now.”

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  Sir Draven looked at the helm lying across the floor, the hilt of the soul-forged blade still locked in its slit. He leaned toward it, hand outstretched, but stopped short.

  “These cursed things,” the knight said. “They serve no good.”

  “I…” Sir Draven faltered. He looked down at the armor clinging to his body.

  Then he looked back at them.

  Fear had taken hold of him. The knight knew that look. He had worn it the day the dungeon door closed and the darkness swallowed the world.

  “It won’t let me go,” Sir Draven whispered.

  “My curse wasn’t eternal life,” the knight said. “Time would wear me to dust. Split me apart until memory itself meant nothing. It was death without end.”

  “What have I done?” Sir Draven asked, sinking to his knees.

  “I don’t blame you,” the knight said.

  He reached for Marigold. She lowered the sword and helped lift him into a seated position.

  “I flaunted my curse as a gift,” he continued. “I never spoke of the dread that followed me. I understand why you sought this power.”

  Sir Draven suddenly lurched forward, one arm reaching—fingers curled.

  “What is thi—”

  His body jerked again.

  The knight followed the direction of his reaching hand.

  “The helm,” he said. “You mustn’t.”

  Sir Draven shook his head violently.

  “I can’t stop!”

  Marigold released the knight and rushed forward. She seized Sir Draven by the collar of his backplate and pulled him backward. A wet tearing sound filled the throne room.

  Sir Draven screamed.

  Marigold froze, still gripping the armor.

  “Do it!” Sir Draven cried. “Get it off me!”

  She pulled again.

  Sir Draven staggered to his feet, dragging her forward with him. The knight watched as the backplate began to separate.

  Red strands tethered the steel to his flesh.

  Marigold planted a foot against his hip and screamed with effort.

  Her face flushed red. Her voice tore raw in her throat.

  With a final wrench, the backplate ripped free.

  It flew from her hands and clattered across the floor.

  Sir Draven collapsed onto his back.

  Blood spread beneath him across the polished stone.

  The pain poured from him in a breathless scream, high and broken.

  Still, the armor did not relent.

  Sir Draven’s arms worked without him, turning, pushing him toward the helm.

  “Stop him!” the knight shouted.

  “Please,” Sir Draven sobbed, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

  Marigold gathered herself and straddled him, seizing the breastplate at his ribs—crying with him as she pulled.

  His hands fumbled for hers in a blind attempt to rip her loose.

  She held his right arm down with her foot and moved both hands to the same edge, pulling with her full weight and strength.

  The sound turned the knight’s stomach. He wept as he watched.

  Blood pooled beneath Sir Draven, running from his wounds in steady streams.

  He and Marigold screamed as one.

  She fell, the breastplate in her hands and Sir Draven flayed on the floor beside her.

  “Thank… you…” he choked out.

  His chest settled in one last rasping release.

  Still, his hands clawed at the floor, dragging his lifeless body forward.

  Slowly, they too went still—the helm just beyond their reach.

  A crash rumbled through the air.

  “The wall,” the knight said. “Help me up.”

  Marigold grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, hooking his elbow around her neck. Together they hobbled to the window.

  Dust rolled through the kingdom where a section of the outer wall had collapsed.

  Beyond the broken wall, the darkness began to move.

  And nothing stood between it and the kingdom.