She gave him a look.
“Right,” he said. “Stupid question.”
They descended the slope together, cautious. Lira signaled for Alek to scout the perimeter while Brann began tracing defensive glyphs on the surrounding stones. Cassian stayed close—too close, by her usual standards. But tonight… she didn’t mind it.
Her breath came shallow. Her arms ached. Even her thoughts felt fragmented.
He saw it again.
She hated that he saw it.
“You’re still bleeding,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to the place where the hem of her glove was damp.
“It’ll stop.”
“You sure about that?”
“No.”
His expression didn’t change. But something in his voice softened. “You’re not weak for being spent, Seraphine.”
“I’m not spent,” she whispered.
But she was. And he knew it.
She reached for her belt pouch, fingers brushing the edge of the blood key.
Cassian touched her wrist—lightly, carefully.
“You gave too much.”
She looked at him. And in the fading light, with swamp fog curling around their boots and the temple ruins breathing ancient magic, she let herself be still.
Just for a moment.
FOURTEEN
CASSIAN
Cassian hated ruins.
Not because they were old or haunted or half-collapsed into memory, though all that was true.
He hated them because they always smelled like death. Quiet, patient death. The kind that waited in the cracks and smiled with broken teeth.
The temple at the basin’s edge was worse than most.
Even with the blood key pulsing warm against Seraphine’s hip, the threshold fought them. The air thickened the closer they got, until it felt like walking through a swamp made of memory and ash. Sigils crawled along the stone, flickering in and out like they couldn’t decide whether to warn or devour.
As for Seraphine...
She was barely standing.
He watched her fingers tremble as she pressed the blood key into the altar lock, a thin sheen of sweat on her brow. She didn't complain. Of course she didn’t. She was always fire, always forward. But her flame was running low.
Too low.
The warded doors groaned open. Cassian drew his blade.
