Alora lay face down amid rumpled sheets, one arm tucked beneath her pillow, her back bare where the covers had slipped. Her hair spilled across her shoulders in loose disarray, catching the faint glow of the Rift like threads of fire. Every soft breath she drew struck his chest like a blow.
This was the shape of everything he would lose.
Rune crossed the tent quietly and knelt beside the bed. He brushed his fingers over her shoulder, light as a whisper, committing the warmth of her skin to memory. He pressed his mouth to her temple, lingering longer than he should have, his breath unsteady despite his will.
Forgive me, songbird.
The first step away from his mate was the hardest. The second made it hard to breathe. On the third, he clung to the memory of her voice that he would never hear again.
Rune turned away before the thought could fracture him.
The portal opened soundlessly at his command, shadows folding inward upon themselves. He stepped through without looking back.
The Ruins of Khar Avalen greeted him with cold winds coming in from the roaring sea beyond the cliffs.
Stone pillars rose from the earth like jagged teeth, their surfaces etched with ancient sigils worn smooth by time and old magic. The air was dead here. No insects. No life. Even the fog lay unnaturally still, clinging to the ground.
The only thing that grew was a field of spider lilies. They gently fluttered as he strode toward the circular stone dais in the middle of the pillars. The weight of it pressed into him, memory and inevitability intertwined.
This was where the desperate bargained for false hope.
Where mercy had ended.
As he climbed onto the dais, his gaze fell on the wrecked opening where he had torn through from the pit below. It was too dark inside to see anything beyond the top of crumbled statues. Too dark to see where the Scry Mirror remained.
It had nothing to show him now.
Rune lifted his hand.
For the first time in centuries, it shook. He closed his fists until the tremor stilled. Then at his silent command, the stone reformed itself to cover the opening until the platform was unblemished.
He drew out the scroll Deimos had given him, its edges yellowed and brittle, script faded but still the old array was clear. The kind of knowledge meant to be buried, not preserved.
After studying it for a moment, hellfire sparked at his fingertips and Rune cast them over the stone. Thin and precise lines shone crimson as the Soul Anchor took shape at his feet.
Power hummed through the ruins, low and hungry, recognizing its purpose. His shadows writhed in frantic whips, pulling against him.
“This is for her,” he reminded them and they slowly calmed.
The shadows only mirrored his dread. Because he knew, there was no coming back from this. The Soul Anchor would take him, hollow him, bind him beyond time for eternity.
But it would seal the Rift and reinforce Vorak’s prison. The Realms would stand and Alora would live.
The cost was worth it.
He exhaled and began the final glyph?—
“Rune!”
The scream tore through the ruins, cleaving straight through his chest.
Rune froze and the Hellfire in his hand guttered out.
He knew that voice. He would know it in oblivion.
Light flared behind him and he flinched, thinking it was the sun. But he looked over his shoulder, and the white glow glared from the boughs of an Elder Tree he’d forgotten was there.
Alora stood before it, her skin glittering with magic. He blinked and she vanished from sight only to appear in front of him. She tackled him off the platform and they fell among the flowers.
