The journal pages were thin as dried leaves.
William turned them slowly, afraid they would crumble in his fingers. The Saint's handwriting was small, precise, desperate. Each word had been pressed into the page with force, as if the writer was afraid of being forgotten.
I have tried everything. Absorbing the Rust. Containing the Rust. Sealing it in blades, in boxes, in vaults. Nothing works forever. The Rust always returns. Always hungers. Always spreads.
But I have found another way.
Destruction.
The Rust is not alive. Not truly. But it behaves as if it is. It grows. It spreads. It consumes. To destroy it, you must burn it out at the source.
The source is blood.
My blood.
The blood of the Saint's line.
Elara read over William's shoulder. Her breath caught.
"He's saying the only
