As she watched the ceramic sphere smash into a hundred pieces at Zoralia’s feet, her vision flickered. Smoke erupted from the shattered bomb, pouring out until Zoralia had disappeared into the hazy cloud.

  The sacred beast beneath her feet quaked, nearly knocking her to the ground. Diya saw her life flash before her eyes. And yet, it was nothing like the way it was written in fables. Instead of seeing a carefully cultivated collection of her finest moments, she was pulled through a patchwork quilt of seemingly insignificant moments.

  Her father teaching her how to cook flatbread. A young and hot-tempered Shikra bucking her from the saddle for a week straight. One of the countless times she let Rohan copy her homework. Installing the irrigation system in her rooftop garden, water trickling through copper pipes like obedient little rivers. Tamsin laughing at the goofy way that her hair stuck up after a minor alchemical mishap.

  Ordinary fragments of her life that she had taken for granted weaved together like a quilt of memories. The stitchwork piled onto her chest, heavy, until it was hard for her to breathe. It struck her that life was more than just grand ambitions and meticulous planning. It was the small things. It was enjoying a cup of tea with a friend while the sun set. Wagering the over or under on how many times a particularly crabby drill-instructor would ask if the cadets could hear him. Even having one’s darkest secrets presented to a courtyard full of strange witches.

  Rather than be snapped out of her reverie by the township on an elephant equivalent of an earthquake, it was the opposite that brought her back to the present. Ghanesha had gone still.

  Zoralia stared at Diya, thick smoke dissipating around her in soft, snaking spirals. She was no longer chanting. Her young, unwrinkled face bore the expression of one who was trying desperately to regain control of their body. Trying, but failing. That’s when—just like so many months back when Diya had tested her prototype on the cadets—the flood gates that held back Zoralia’s most guarded memories crashed open.

  “I wasn’t always so certain,” the once, but no longer old witch rambled, shaking her head. “Of course, I wanted to live forever. Who wouldn’t? But I didn’t become obsessed with the idea until I killed my best friend. And not only my best and oldest friend, but the chief of my coven.”

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  Diya blinked quickly, trying to comprehend the flood of information. She killed Tamsin and Kromac’s mother?

  Zoralia made another attempt to fight the bomb's effect and finish her ritual. But it was no use, and the forced confession continued. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean for her to die. We were researching the ritual that could return the Nature Spirit to this world. In a sunken temple buried beneath a mountain, we found a map. She thought we should leave it, worried it might be a trap, but I had seen it in my scrying. It was the key to unearthing the ritual. What I hadn’t seen in my scrying was how right she was.

  It was a trap. When I took the map, the temple began to collapse around us. A column collapsed, crushing her legs underneath. I couldn’t get her free. And so, I left her there. I fled with the map. Her face still haunts my nightmares every night. I couldn’t allow her death to be in vain, and so I dedicated my life to returning the Nature Spirit to our world.”

  Her heart ached, and Diya stepped gingerly closer. “That’s awful. Truly. But I lost someone close to me once. And I can say with confidence that allowing their death to drive you to madness is no way to honor their memory. Your ritual will kill an irreplaceable sacred beast, as well as thousands of innocent people. I have a feeling your friend wouldn’t want that.”

  Zoralia’s face twisted in agony, and with a grunt, she spun around, stepping back into the center of the ritual sigil. Somehow, she had broken free of the bomb’s effects. She returned to chanting but stopped abruptly, jaw hanging open as if she had just been thrown back into her nightmare. Only this time, she was fully awake.

  Tamsin stood in front of her, no longer wearing her white lace mask. A striking resemblance to her mother.

  “It can’t be,” Zoralia gasped, shaking her head and rubbing her eyes. “You died in that temple. I saw it with my own two eyes!”

  Clearly confused by the strange behavior, Tamsin held her twin maces at her sides and crouched into a combat stance. Before she could leap into action, a hopeful ray of light shone down on them. Zoralia collapsed to her knees and began weeping. The eclipse was over. Snow still fell, but the warm sunlight promised a better tomorrow.

  As the sun returned to its vigilant place in the sky, a transformation shook Zoralia. Her youthful face sagged like melting butter, and while she thought she had escaped them, in mere moments her years had caught up with her. Father Time was a spiteful man, it seemed, and he did not appear to be fond of her attempt to make a fool of him. The rapid aging didn’t come to a halt at her previous elderly state, rather it kept accelerating.

  Zoralia screamed as she aged rapidly, until eventually her lamentations shifted to a sound like sand shaking, and then she exploded into dust.

  Diya and Tamsin shared wide-eyed looks before running together and collapsing into each other’s arms. It was over.