All I can think about, over and over again, is not getting to her in time in the Great Hall. The image burns behind my eyelids, her body about to crumple to the floor while I fought through chaos and shadow, too far away, too slow. I made a vow to never fail her again, and damn it, I am going to keep it. Even if it kills me.
My heart hasn’t stopped pounding since the moment I witnessed the sheer magnitude of power explode from her chest. The memory plays in vivid, impossible detail, the way the very air seemed to bend around her, the way every shadow beastin that hall suddenly looked small and fragile in comparison to what she’d become.
She was glowing. I almost didn’t believe what I saw at first, thought maybe it was a play of the torchlight or my own desperate hope. No, her skin burned a bronze gold, like bright sunlight breaking through storm clouds, luminous and fierce and utterly otherworldly. Her eyes were blown wide, those pale gray-blue depths reflecting something ancient, terrible, and beautiful all at once as the magic burst from her like a tornado given form. It tore through the shadow beasts like a detonation, sent them howling backward in clouds of smoke and ash that reeked of sulfur and defeat. Then she stuttered out as it began to vanish, the light dimming like a candle flame snuffed between wet fingers, like the magic was nothing more than a trick of the eyes.
I felt it. The raw power that had rolled off her in waves, making my wolf whine and pace and bare his throat in instinctive submission to something far greater than himself.
I hold her tighter now, rocking her gently as I press a kiss to her blood-caked hair, trying to wrap my mind around what I witnessed. Trying to process that this fragile, unconscious woman in my arms just wielded enough power to possibly level a city block.
The entire ordeal reminded me too much of the night we had to battle the Light Guardians under Michael’s control at HellNight Academy. The same chaos and pandemonium, the same confusion of friend and foe, everyone fumbling over each other to run from darkness eager to snuff out whatever got in their way. The metallic taste of terror coating my tongue as I watched people I cared about fall.
I didn’t know it then, but I tore through those Guardians because I didn’t have a choice. They were innocent, mindless puppets with no control over their actions, but it was them or mypack. Just thinking of it now sends a shudder of despair through me, the phantom taste of blood in my mouth and the weight of necessary violence on my conscience.
My wolf fought me today, clawed at my restraint, demanded I shift and tear into the threats surrounding us with fang and claw. I remained on two feet because Esme needed me human. She needed Sam, not the beast. I couldn’t lose myself to the fight around me, couldn’t let the wolf take over when she might need gentle hands to catch her if she fell.
The scent of blood still clings to the air like a second skin, rich, coppery fae blood mixed with the sharper tang of monster ichor. Burned silk and sulfur, smoke and ash, the acrid stench of magic gone wrong. I still hear the echoes of screaming fae scrambling through the court, their elegant composure shattered into animal panic. Black-cloaked monsters dragging soldiers into shadows that seemed to swallow light itself. Through it all, the queen stood in the center like something possessed, snarling Esme’s name like it was a curse she wanted to carve into the world.
I couldn’t get to her. My legs felt like they were moving through thick honey, every step an eternity while shadow beasts tore through the space between us. I wasn’t fast enough.You got to her in the end, Sam,I remind myself, the words feeling hollow even in my own head. I caught her before she hit the blood-soaked floor.
The memory of her weight in my arms, limp and boneless, makes my throat tighten. For one horrible moment, I thought I’d lost her. Thought whatever power had exploded from her chest had taken her with it.
I swallow the lump in my throat and run a hand down Esme’s back, feeling the delicate bumps of her spine beneath the torn silk of her dress. She’s too still in my arms, too quiet. I know she’s alive. I feel the steady rhythm of her heart against mychest, hear each breath she takes, but it doesn’t stop me from counting each beat like a prayer. That burst of power drained her completely. She was unconscious before we made it out of the hall, her head lolling against my shoulder like a rag doll.
Now we’re waiting in some forgotten chamber tucked deep in the East Wing, as far from the carnage as Locke could get us. It’s cold and quiet, nothing like the grandeur of the court she was just paraded in front of like a prize to be claimed. The walls are bare stone, damp with centuries of neglect, like some royal fallout bunker, mismatched furniture that’s seen better decades, windowless walls that press in like a tomb, torches flickering low and casting dancing shadows that make my wolf pace nervously internally. The flames barely push back the darkness, and every shift of light makes me tense, waiting for more shadow beasts to come crawling out of the corners.
Locke got us here fast, navigating the castle’s maze of corridors like he’d memorized every secret passage as a child. For that, I’m grateful. Whatever else I think of the fae warrior, he proved himself today.
Across the chamber, he stands near the doorway like a sentinel, arms crossed, blood drying in thick streaks down his neck and chest plate. The crimson looks black in the torchlight, painting him in shades of violence that seems to suit him too well. His eyes haven’t moved from us since we got here, that intense stare tracks every breath Esme takes, every slight shift in her position. His jaw clenches rhythmically, like he’s grinding his molars into dust. I can feel his fury from here, a cold, controlled rage that mirrors my own burning anger. At least with this, we’re on the same page.
“She needs rest,” I say quietly, as much to break the weight of the tension in the silent room as to state the obvious.
He says nothing, just continues his own vigil, eyes locked on my Angel like he’s memorizing every detail of her face. I want toshield her from his sight, want to snarl at him to look away, but he’s proven his investment in her safety today. Blood and battle have a way of showing a man’s true priorities, and Locke fought like a demon to keep the wraiths away from her. So, I push down my possessiveness, swallow the territorial growl that wants to rumble up from my chest. At least, for now.
The door scrapes open with a sound like fingernails on stone, and Rue’s blood-splattered face peeks through the gap. His usually perfect appearance is thoroughly destroyed, hair mussed beyond recognition, coat torn at the shoulder, blood staining the hem of his elaborate robes in dark splotches that could be his or someone else’s entirely.
“Where the hell were you?” Locke snaps, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
Rue stumbles in, looking like he’s been through a blender set to ‘chaos.’ It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look less than perfectly groomed, his usual theatrical elegance replaced by genuine dishevelment. He bows anyway, deep and theatrical even with torn fabric and gore decorating his form, and presses a rolled parchment tied with royal purple ribbon into the king’s waiting hand.
King Rhys Ayla stands at the far end of the chamber, dark dreadlocks falling loose around his shoulders instead of pulled back in their usual elegant style. Gold embroidery is torn along one sleeve of his formal jacket, and there’s a smear of something dark across his left cheekbone. He hasn’t spoken much since we arrived, just barked orders at servants, checked Esme’s pulse with the careful attention of a worried father, and paced the length of the chamber like a caged predator on the edge of losing everything that matters.
“Your timing is shit,” Locke mutters as Rue joins him by the doorway, both of them falling into the easy camaraderie of warriors who’ve survived the same battle.
Rue raises a perfectly sculpted brow, somehow managing to look imperious even covered in blood and destruction. “You’re welcome, darling. Saving royal decrees and dodging shadow wraiths isn’t exactly a leisurely stroll through the gardens.”
The heavy wooden door swings open again, and General Erron enters in a rush. Unlike the rest of us, he’s not bloodied, not wounded, just composed in a way that immediately sets my teeth on edge. His pristine appearance, not a hair out of place, not a speck of blood on his immaculate armor, makes me side-eye him warily. Everyone else in this castle fought for their lives tonight, but he looks like he just stepped out of a portrait.
I instinctively curl myself over Esme, creating a barrier between her unconscious form and the General’s calculating gaze. The man makes my wolf’s hackles rise, every instinct screaming warnings I can’t quite put into words. My mother always told me to trust my wolf, and I’ve learned he is never wrong about people.
“My king,” the General says, dipping his head in a show of respect that feels rehearsed rather than genuine. “We’ve swept the grounds. The queen and her remaining creatures are gone.”
Rhys Ayla’s voice slices through the room like a sword, each word heavy with barely contained rage. “Gone? That’s all you have to say? She entered my court with shadow wraiths and tried to kill my daughter in front of half the nobility!”
“Several of the outer gate guards were found unconscious,” the General replies smoothly, his tone maddeningly calm in the face of his king’s fury. “Some are dead. We believe she manipulated one of the wards with enchantments to gain entry?—”
“She brought wraiths into my home!” Rhys’s voice cracks with rage, the careful control of a lifetime of kingship finally beginning to fray at the edges. “Shadow wraiths don’t cross intothis realm without help, Sylviane. Powerful help. Are you telling me Lucelle had assistance from someone inside my court?”
The general doesn’t flinch from the reproach, doesn’t show even a flicker of the concern or guilt I’d expect from someone whose security measures just catastrophically failed. He doesn’t answer either, and that silence speaks volumes.
