"Nesilhan," I gasp, blood dripping from my lips where I've bitten through them. "She's—fuck—someone's attacking her. The baby?—"
Through our connection, I sense her terror intensifying. The feeling of backing away, hands pressed protectively to her belly. The sensation of cold stone walls around her. The dungeons. She's in the palace dungeons—I can feel it across the thread between us.
Shadows explode from my skin with enough force to disintegrate the tent around us. I tear a portal between realms with my bare hands, reality screaming in protest as I force passage back to the Shadow Court.
General Altín is shouting something—probably threats—but I neither know nor care.
All that matters is getting to her.
The portal deposits me in the palace dungeons.
The scene that greets me will haunt whatever's left of my soul for eternity.
Nesilhan is on the ground.
There's blood everywhere.
Too much blood. A spreading pool of it, black in the dim light, soaking through her dress and painting the stone beneath her like some nightmare artist's canvas.
Elçin is on her knees beside Nesilhan, hands pressed uselessly against her cousin's stomach. Her face is streaked with tears and twisted with helpless fury.
"Hold on," Elçin commands, but her voice cracks. "That's an order, cousin. You hold on. Both of you."
"My lord," Emir says, suddenly appearing in the dungeons, his voice empty. "Banu, she’s–"
He's pointing at a pile of shadow and ash on the floor. All that remains of what used to look like Banu. The bodyhas already dissolved completely, leaving only dark residue as evidence it was ever here.
"The real Banu—" Elçin starts.
"Later." I drop beside Nesilhan, my hands replacing Elçin's. "We find the real Banu later. Right now?—"
One vicious stab directly into her stomach—aimed with deadly purpose, designed to destroy the one thing I'd kill entire realms to protect. Emir approaches us, keeping an eye on the still dissolving shadow and ash on the floor, his gaze searching for the missing fairy.
Blood pulses warm between my fingers. Too much blood.
But she's still breathing. Still warm. I'm not too late.
(I can't be too late.)
Through the bond—damaged but still present—her voice crashes into my mind.
"Our baby isn't moving."
And underneath that, not directed at me but bleeding through our connection anyway—her silent apology to our child: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't keep you safe."
Out loud, she's begging. Her lips move, blood-flecked, words breaking on sobs: "Please. Take me instead. Please, just let my baby live. Please."
Her eyes find mine, glazed with shock and agony, and I see the moment she recognizes me. Relief and terror war across her features.
"The baby," she gasps. "I can't—I can't feel?—"
That's when I notice.
The stillness where there should be movement. That constant flutter of life I've grown addicted to sensing through our bond—our child's presence, bright and curious and impossibly precious—has gone quiet.
"HEALER!" The word comes out as a roar that shakes the dungeon walls. "Get me a fucking healer NOW!"
I feel Nesilhan fading. Feel her life force guttering like a candle in a hurricane. And beneath that, fainter but still present, I sense our child's tiny consciousness.
