I don't want to be left behind.
The plea surfaces with desperation that my hellhound body can't express—yearning so intense that it should be visible in the air around me, need so profound that reality itself should bendto accommodate it. But magic doesn't work that way. Curses don't care about want.
This is what Elena wanted.
The realization crystallizes with the particular clarity of puzzles finally revealing their true design. Shedidn't just curse me to create a weapon—she cursed me to create tragedy. To engineer exactly this scenario, where the people I care about are forced to choose between their own survival and a monster who can't explain that he's still the man they knew.
This is what she planned.
For my demise to be a lonely, agonizing one.
To deliver what she believes I deserve for not being utmost loyal to her.
For the plans that were rooted for the sister she's desperate to destroy.
I failed to serve Elena's agenda.
Failed to prioritize her schemes above Gwenievere's wellbeing.
Failed to remain the obedient weapon she expected when she first learned of my existence.
And this is my punishment.
Isolation.
Abandonment.
The knowledge that the woman I love is walking away because I can't tell her not to.
"Mortimer!"
Gwenievere's voice cuts through my spiraling despair with force that makes all three of my heads snap toward her position. She's calling to the dragon shifter, summoning the transportation that will carry them all toward the gates I was trying to destroy.
They're leaving.
They're actually leaving.
The dragon shifter responds to her call with the particular obedience of bond mates who recognize when their Queen has made a decision. Mortimer's massive form roars as it soars toward the golden gates—toward the structures that have suddenly begun to open, revealing whatever lies beyond this volcanic nightmare.
The rest of the crew accompanies him.
Atticus on his back, Nikolai finding purchase among the scales, the others arranging themselves for departure that will leave me behind. All of them following Gwenievere's command because that's what bond mates do—they trust their Queen's judgment even when that judgment condemns one of their own to eternal isolation.
No.
They're leaving.
They're leaving.
I let out an outcry.
The roar that escapes all three of my throats shakes the frost ground that's sizzling against the lava still fighting to make way. The sound carries everything I can't express in words—desperation, fear, the particular anguish of watching hope disappear while trapped in a form that can't pursue it.
Don't go.
Please don't go.
I'm still here.
