I don’t sleep. I can’t. This is probably my last night alive. It’s horrible, lying here, shivering with cold and fear, knowing what’s to come, thinking about death and all that I’ll lose. Why couldn’t I have fallen in battle, killed quickly, no time to worry about the Otherworld and what I was leaving behind? This waiting is worse than death itself.

I have moments of doubt in the middle of the night, when the world is a lonely place. I could run. Desert with Connla. I’m not sure why he’s stuck with us this long. He could have left when we were at the coast or when Bran brought the horses. He said he wasn’t one to flee a challenge but maybe it’s just that he fears running by himself, with no one to watch his back. If I said I’d go with him, I’m certain he’d jump at the chance. With his strength and standing, allied to my magical abilities, we could be a mighty pair. Set ourselves up as rulers of some far-off tuath. Connla a king, me a priestess-queen. All-powerful.

It’s tempting. I know my duty and I believe my suffering will be brief, that I’ll find peace in the Otherworld. But in my heart I’m a young girl, afraid of the darkness of death, wanting to grow up and see more of the world, taste more of life. I cry quietly to myself, thinking of the terrible sacrifice I must make, the joys I will never know, the love I’ll now definitely never find. Part of me wants to slither across to Connla, put my offer to him, then leap on a horse and ride out of this nightmare as fast as I can.

But I don’t. Duty wins out over fear in the end. I can’t stop the shivers or the fast beat of my heart, but I can wipe away tears and hold my ground. And I do. I hate the prospect of dying and I’m more afraid than I ever thought I could be. But if this is my destiny… if it’s what the gods ask of me… so be it. Better to die for my people in my own land than rule in another and suffer a lifetime of cowardly guilt.

Many of the demons return in the hour before dawn, some bearing trophies of their battles with humans—heads, limbs, torsos, sometimes children who are still alive, kicking and screaming in terror. It’s hard to ignore the cries of the young but there’s nothing we can do without giving our position away. If we did that, the demons would attack in great and unmerciful force and we’d all perish.

“They’ll be the last,” Drust whispers, his eyes hard. “After tomorrow, no more will die at the hands of the Demonata.”

“You promise?” I ask, my fears and doubts causing me to question him, desperately searching his face for a hint of the lie that would provide me with an excuse to bail out.

“I promise,” Drust says calmly. “It won’t be easy, but having come this far I’m sure we won’t fail.” He pauses. “You’re still prepared to…?”

“Of course!” I snap, pretending to be offended by the notion that I might have had second thoughts.

He lays a gentle hand on my right knee. “It will be quick. It won’t hurt. You have my word.”

I shrug as if that was the furthest thing from my thoughts, then listen to the demons crashing by and try to drown out the echoes of the children’s screams.

Day. The order of the world restored. My final sun. Fittingly, it’s obscured by heavy grey clouds. I’ve heard that clouds are rare in some lands, that the sun shines all day in a clear blue sky. But surely those are fanciful tales, told for the amusement of the young. This world was made to be cloaked in grey. It wouldn’t feel natural if the sun shone brightly all the time.

Drust examines the horses and declares one of them unfit for the trek. We let it go and after a few mumbles from Bran it wanders off to find a good grazing spot. Perhaps it will be the only survivor of our group this day.

Before we leave, Drust makes a final speech, looking around slowly, his gaze lingering on each of us in turn, first Connla, then Lorcan, Goll, Bran and me.

“I’ve acted as if I don’t care about you. In the beginning it was true. You were figures for me to manipulate, like pieces on my chess board. I didn’t care if you lived or died. I couldn’t afford to.

“But I’ve changed. I wasn’t aware of it happening but it did. I think of you as friends now. You’ve been loyal and brave, putting the welfare of others before your own, risking all on the strength of my promise to rid this world of demons.

“So I say to you now, as friends—you can leave. Only Bec and I need go on. If our plan works, there won’t be any battle. If something goes wrong and we have to fight, the chances are you won’t make much difference against the masses of demons. You can step aside and return home without any shame or guilt.”

He stops and awaits the men’s response.

“A gracious offer,” Goll says warmly, “but I’ll stay. I want to see how it finishes, so I can tell those in our tuath and bask in the glory. I’ve always wanted to be part of a legend!”

“Me too,” Lorcan says. “Besides, I want to kill a few more demons before you banish them from our land. For Ronan.”

We all look at Connla. “I’m going nowhere,” he says quietly, defiantly.

Drust smiles. “True warriors one and all.” He puts a hand out and, one by one, we touch it, until all of us are joined, even Bran, who squints at the hands as if he expects a trick. “To the end,” Drust says simply.

“To the end,” we repeat.

“Of the demons!” Goll adds and we laugh.

Then we mount up—Drust rides with Bran, while I sit behind Lorcan—and set off. Our final journey. Our final challenge. My final day.

Working on the spells of closure. Not one spell but several. Spells to join split rock back together, move earth, seal magical gaps. The most difficult spells I’ve ever tried to learn. Even with my vastly expanded powers I have trouble mastering them. My tongue trips on the words. Despite my perfect memory, I get the order wrong and muddle them up.

Drust doesn’t lose his temper. He repeats the spells over and over, making me slowly practise the words and phrases which are particularly difficult.

“This is helpful for me too,” he says as we take a short break. “I’ve never cast these spells before. It’s good that I get the order straight within my mind and the words clear on my tongue.”

“If you… if I have to replace you,” I say. “When do I make the sacrifice?”

“You’ll know when the time comes,” he says. “The spells will direct you. There is no single right moment. These spells react to the threat which the caster faces, so they’re different each time. Even as you’re uttering them, they’ll change. As long as you keep the original spells clear within your thoughts, and don’t stumble, you’ll be fine—the new spells will carry you along.”

“And if I make a mistake? Should I stop and start again?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Once you start, you must continue. If you say a wrong word or stutter, don’t stop. Push on and hope the error wasn’t important. There will be forces working in opposition to our magic. Once the Demonata realise what we’re doing, they’ll set themselves against us. The spells will protect us—I hope—but if they break down, a second is all it will take for our enemies to destroy us.”

I wish he could be more encouraging, but this is a time for the truth, however troubling it might be. So I listen. And repeat. And hope that I’m never charged with the task of having to do this. Because I’m not only unsure whether or not I’d be able to get the spells right—I also don’t know if I could bring myself to take up a weapon against one of my friends and kill him.