“Oh, my God,” Olivia cried. “Our chances at a cure are ruined. I’ve broken everything. I’m so sorry!”
I rushed to her side and lifted her with gentle hands. She looked so small and fragile, like a lost child seeking comfort. We had to remain strong and quickly find a solution.
“Hush now,” I soothed, brushing away a strand of hair from her tear-stained face. “We’ll think of something. We won’t give up.”
“Roman...” Her voice was a raspy whisper as she covered her mouth with her arm, fear lacing each syllable. “I wonder if we’ll die just by sniffing whatever this is?”
She clutched her chest, her breathing ragged and shallow, her body convulsing. Primal terror gripped me, constricting my heart with its icy fingers. We were fading fast, our bodies succumbing to the venom’s relentless advance.
“Olivia, no,” I said, barely above a murmur.
I watched in horror as dark, vein-like tendrils snaked up her arms. They were the harbingers of death, painting a grim tableau on her pale skin.
“Come, you need to lie down.” My words were firm, but my hands trembled as I lifted her. She felt so fragile, like a feather caught in a storm, and I struggled under the weight of her poisoned body. Every step felt like a battle, but with a final heave, I managed to lower her onto the bed. Her once vibrant eyes were now clouded with pain, and her body slacked against the tangle of sheets.
“Rest,” I said, though the word tasted bitter. Rest would not save us.
An onslaught of memories surged through my mind, relentless waves crashing against the fragile shore of my consciousness. I saw a battlefield stretched out before me, the dead and dying scattered like discarded chess pieces. Amid the chaos stood Isabelle, her face etched with determination, her eyes brimming with tears that mirrored my anguish. My attire was different, armor from another time, another life.
“Run! Get the blades to safety!” I had shouted, the urgency in my voice carving deep furrows into my soul.
Her scream pierced the veil of years, haunting and resolute. “No, Armand, I won’t. If I separate the blades, terrible things will happen.”
“Go, Isabelle! Separate them,” I commanded, my desperation sharpening into steel. “Do as I say. We must do what’s best for all. We’ll find one another—in this life or the next.”
“Roman!” Olivia’s voice sliced through the memory, pulling me from the haunting echoes of the past. I blinked, the images dissolving like smoke in the morning sun, replaced by the harsh reality of her weakening form.
I ran to her side, my past and present colliding, both battles equally dire. Her trembling hand found mine, her grip faint but insistent. The blackness continued its slow crawl up her arm, snaking like sinister vines, a tangible representation of the poison’s victory. Her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps as she looked up at me, her resolve flickering like a dying flame.
“Roman,” she rasped, her voice barely more than a whisper but laced with urgency, “I won’t survive. You can’t let Salvatore win. He must never have the blades.”
Her words were a chilling echo of my fears, her plea a desperate tether to the reality I wished to escape. Through the haze of poison and despair, her resolve stirred something deep within me—a fire that refused to be extinguished.
“Roman, we’re idiots,” she murmured, her eyelids fluttering, her voice breaking under the weight of resignation. “If only Amara were here... We’re doomed. We can’t... figure this out.”
The resignation in her tone was a siren’s call to despair.
“No! This can’t happen again,” I roared, the denial ripping from my chest. Yet, the venom spread relentlessly, mocking my desperation, painting Olivia’s skin with death’s unyielding palette. I turned my face skyward, pleading with an unseen deity for mercy, for intervention. “Please, not like this. Not now.”
The air around us shifted, subtle but undeniable—a whisper of something beyond the tangible. It was then that I felt it—the presence of Amara. Ethereal, distant, yet vividly real. My heart surged, pounding like a war drum as I instinctively approached where I sensed her.
“Help me,” I begged, my voice cracking under my desperation. “What do I need to do to save us?”
Her voice, clear and resonant, echoed within me, unshaken by the barriers of time and mortality. “You’ve done this before. In Rome, when Olivia was poisoned—you healed her.”
The memory crashed into me like a flood. Rome. The iron blade. I had used it once to purge poison from her body. My hands moved instinctively, fueled by the fragments of hope reignited within me. I scoured the room with frantic energy, tossing aside bottles and jars until my fingers landed on the hilt of a petite knife. Its once-innocuous purpose now carried the gravity of life or death.
Fumbling, I seized the tinderbox and struck flint to steel, coaxing sparks onto the dry kindling piled in the brazier. Flames roared to life, their heat licking hungrily at the air, starkly contrasting the icy dread gripping the room.
I held the blade over the fire, watching as it glowed white-hot under the relentless kiss of the flames. The metal radiated with promise and peril, a final gambit against the darkness threatening to claim us.
“Olivia,” I said, turning to her, my voice steady despite the storm of fear coursing through me. Grim determination carved itself into every line of my face. “I have to do this.”
Her gaze locked onto mine, wide with fear yet tinged with an unspoken trust. She gave the faintest nod, bracing herself for what was to come. The searing blade met her skin, and her scream tore through the stillness, raw and primal, a symphony of pain and defiance. The sound reverberated in my chest, cutting deeper than the act itself, yet I pressed on, my resolve solidified by her courage.
As the venomous black veins began to recede from her skin, I inhaled sharply, feeling the knife’s purpose extend to me. Without hesitation, I dragged the razor-sharp edge across my palm. The heat lanced through my flesh, pain blossoming like firecrackers behind my eyes.
Consciousness returned to me in slow, disorienting waves. My eyelids fluttered open to see Pasha Hassan standing over us, his face shadowed in the dim light. He clapped softly, the solitary sound echoing oddly against the stone walls, mocking our torment.
