And there—deep in the stillness—I feel his angel blood respond.
Not fighting my power. Recognizing it.
Fae and angel. Ancient enemies. Ancient allies. Two magics that shouldn’t work together, tangling around his stopped heart like twin serpents.
The bond pulls taut between us. I feel his essence—scattered, fading, almost gone—and I grab hold.
Come back.
Not a request. A command.
Then—Loss. Nothing. My magic crashes against emptiness—
I pour everything into the bond. Every scrap of power I have left. The connection between us burns white-hot, searing through whatever barrier death tried to build.
COME BACK.
His body convulses.
A violent gasp tears from his throat—lungs expanding like he’s been underwater for minutes. His back arches off the ground.His eyes fly open, wild and unseeing, and a sound rips out of him that’s half scream, half roar.
I grab his shoulders, holding him down as his body fights against the shock of living again. His heart slams against his ribs—not gentle beats returning, but a violent hammering, like something caged finally breaking free.
“Dane!” I grip his face, force him to see me. “I’ve got you. You’re here. You’re back.”
His chest heaves. His hands claw at the ground, at me, at anything solid. The angel blood and fae magic still crackle through him, still rebuilding what was broken.
Then his eyes focus. Find mine.
“Nova.” My name comes out shredded. Barely a rasp.
“I’m here.” My voice cracks. “I’m here. Don’t move. Don’t—“
He moves anyway. Of course he does. His hand lifts—trembling with the effort—and his fingers brush my jaw. Cold. Weak. But deliberate.
“Did we win?” he asks.
A sound escapes me. Half laugh, half sob. “We won.”
His eyes close for a moment, and I think I’ve lost him again. But then they open, sharper now. More present.
“Help me up.”
“Dane, you died. Your heart stopped. You can’t—“
“Help me up.”
I want to argue. Want to keep him still, keep him safe, keep him breathing. But I know that look. I’ve seen it every time he’s put his pack before himself.
I slide my arm under his shoulders and help him sit. He goes gray, sweat breaking across his forehead, but he doesn’t make a sound. Just breathes through it, jaw locked, until the world stops spinning.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
The Fade collapses around us. Reality snaps back—colors bleeding in, gravity settling, sound rushing like a flood.
We’re back in the clearing. The battle is over.
Marcus’s body lies twenty feet away, Kyle still sitting beside it.
