I collapse onto the moss, my body a hollow, useless shell. I am done. I am empty. I am nothing.
My hand, fisted in agony, hits something hard and small in the soft moss.
I unclench my fingers, my body shaking with grief.
There, lying in the snow that now carpets the ground, is the small, wooden star.
His star. The one I gave him. The one he must have had in his hand when he slept, the one that fell when he leaped to save me.
I snatch it. I clutch it to my chest, so hard the points dig painfully into my palm. It is all I have left. It was my hope. My gift. And he threw it away... to save me.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the star, the words choked by a new wave of grief. "I'm so sorry, Threk. I love you. I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry..."
My sobs subside into raw, hiccuping gasps. The world is supposed to be over.
But the light...
The snow is falling faster, but the air is not dark. The white, explosive light of the Wildspont did not vanish. It retreated. It pulled back from me, from the spot where he died.
It is coalescing.
It is a swirling, pulsing vortex of pure, white light, hanging in the air right where he dissolved. It is no longer screaming. It is humming again. A deep, resonant note of... peace?
I stare at it, my grief momentarily forgotten, replaced by a confused, numb awe.
The light is so bright it hurts to look at. It spins faster, condensing, pulling itself inward. It is shrinking, folding in on itself, becoming smaller and smaller... and denser. Solid.
And then... it dims.
The blinding white fades like a dying ember, leaving a shape standing in its place.
A shadow falls over me.
I shrink back, scrambling in the snow, my heart leaping back into my throat. Larda? Did he survive?
I look up.
It is not an elf.
It is a man.
Broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, every inch of him pure, lean muscle. He is naked, his skin a deep, healthy, noble green. His hair is long and jet-black, falling in wet strands around his face.
A proud, strong face with high cheekbones and... tusks. Small, sharp tusks that jut just slightly from his bottom lip.
He is the man from the mural. He is beautiful. And he is looking at me.
My eyes trace down his chest.
And I stop. I stop breathing as my heart skips a beat. I blink, telling myself that I must have lost my mind.
But then I see it. On his chest, there, pale and silvery against his green skin, right over his heart, is a jagged, star-shaped scar.
He kneels.
He moves with a warrior's grace I have never seen. He kneels in the snow before me, this god of a man.
His eyes meet mine.
