Massive. Monstrous. Otherworldly. Nothing’s changed.
His form towers, vaguely humanoid but too fluid, like a shadow made flesh. Barbed edges coil around his limbs, and that voice—a low, distorted growl that seems to crawl straight into your bones—vibrates through the room.
“We need you to?—”
“No.”
“Wait, what?” I blink. “You’re not even going to hear the request first?”
Kael reaches for me, but it’s too late. The vortex slams around us—black mist closing in from all directions. Cold and force and some kind of unrelenting pressure shoves against my skin, and then?—
Light. Noise. Alarms.
We’re not in the citadel anymore. I’m still opening my mouth to argue—to demand he take us back to find Varek—when the sound truly hits me.
Sharp. Urgent. Terrifying.
I spin, taking in the familiar room. The medical wing. “Why the fuck are we?—”
Then I see them.
Dawson. Aelith.
Chaos explodes in my chest.
Kael’s already moving, tearing towards the bed where his prince lies pale and deathly still. Iris is bent over Dawson, herhands pumping compressions against his unmoving chest, her face carved with panic.
He’s not breathing. He’s not moving.
Oh shit.
I rush forwards, my heart in my throat, bile rising. The room swims, and I barely register Kael’s hoarse shout. “Sonny?—”
I trip over my feet, scrambling to his side. I hear him before I feel him—Kael’s devastation, his pain, pouring into me like a flood. His hand is splayed on Aelith’s chest, eyes wild, jaw clenched.
Iris lifts her head as we reach her, sweat dripping down her temple, hands trembling. “He’s crashing. We’re losing them both. Do you have something? Anything?”
“We have—” I lift the satchel, the weight of scrolls and books barely registering. “We have books.” It sounds so fucking weak.
Kael’s hand finds mine. He doesn’t say anything out loud—but the pull is immediate. Urgent. I understand.
He wants me to help. To connect. To try.
I glance at him sharply. “We better not die doing this.”
His lips twitch, but his eyes are full of grief. “I don’t intend to.”
“If I do,” I mutter as I grab his hand, “I swear to God, I will haunt you for the rest of your afterlife. I will endlessly rearrange your weapon racks and whisper awkward sex dreams into your ear at every opportunity.”
His shoulders shake. It might be a laugh. It might be a sob. I take his hand anyway, then press my other palm flat against Dawson’s bare, unmoving chest.
Cold.
So, so cold.
Iris flinches but steps back. Her faith—or desperation—keeps her from intervening.
Kael closes his eyes. I mirror him. And then I open myself.
