I don’t answer with words. I gather every thread of power I’ve reclaimed—every inverted connection, every redirected current—and I shove.
Faelan’s form tears apart at the seams. His scream echoes through the Fade, fury and frustration and something that might be respect, all twisted together. The vortex swallows him—not like an afterthought, but like a predator finally catching its prey.
I stand before the pulsing tear, breathing hard. This was built from me. Around me. For me.
Now it answers to me.
Close.
The mark on my wrist flares silver-bright. The breach fights back—Faelan’s last defiance, trying to stay open, trying to leave a door for his return.
I push harder. My vision whites out at the edges. Blood trickles from my nose.
Close.
The breach folds inward, collapsing into itself. The resistance crumbles. The tear seals with a sound like reality exhaling.
I drop to my knees, gasping. The mark on my wrist dims to a faint glow—still there, but quiet now. Settled.
He’s gone. For now.
But his last words echo in my mind: Harper. Lyanna. Others you haven’t found yet.
This isn’t over. He made sure I know that.
Dane.
His name hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. In the single-minded focus of unmaking Faelan’s work, I’d narrowed my vision to the circuit, the nodes, the systematic dismantling.
Now reality rushes back.
I whip around, scanning the distorted battlefield. The suspended bodies are stirring, some blinking, others still halfway trapped in stasis. Pack members move through the space with cautious steps, trying to orient themselves.
None of that matters.
My legs move before my mind catches up. Dodging fallen branches and floating debris from the collapsing realm. My lungs burn. My magic pulses raw beneath my skin.
I spot him on the ground where he fell. Still. Motionless. His skin ashen, lips colorless. No rise and fall of his chest.
The world narrows to a pinpoint. I drop beside him, knees hitting hard ground. My hands shake as they hover over his body, suddenly afraid to touch him—as if contact might confirm what I can’t accept.
“Dane.” My voice breaks on his name.
My fingers press against his throat, searching for a pulse. Nothing. I slide my palm to his chest, pushing fabric aside, seeking any sign of life. His skin is cold under my touch.
This isn’t happening. Not like this. Not after everything.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” It comes out hoarse, half-strangled.
I press harder, as if pressure alone could restart what stopped. My hand splays across his chest, fingers spread wide, feeling for anything—a flicker, a tremor.
Magic seeps from my fingers—not Faelan’s cold precision, but something older. Ancient fae power, the kind my mother tried to bury, rising without permission.
It’s not enough. His heart stays silent.
No.
I push harder, and the wall I’ve built around the bond shatters. That thread I’ve been ignoring, denying, pretending wasn’t real—it blazes to life between us. My magic follows it like water finding a channel, pouring through the connection straight into his chest.
