Zairon stood over the bodies of the fallen, sword tip resting in the dirt, eyes closed in reverence.
“We bury them quickly, we don’t want to risk another attack.” he said quietly.
Maris gripped the sword tighter, her injury already crusting over in light from the sigil’s slow pulse.
They were closer now. Closer to the battle. Closer to the end.
-Alarik-
Night pressed heavy on the Borderlands.
Their campfire flickered low, ringed by wet stones and shadows that clung too long to the edges of the trees. The air stank of ash and iron, and though the veilspawn were gone, Alarik could feel the residue of their presence, slick and sharp, beneath his skin.
Most of the camp had drifted to sleep. Corin was sharpening his axe beneath a tree, muttering prayers. Serenya sat beside Riven and Zairon, their low voices murmuring about the three they’d lost. Only Kael kept to the outskirts, pacing like a restless sentinel, his silver eyes cutting through the dark.
Alarik sat beside Maris, crouched in the small tent they’d erected for her near the fire, where she lay on her side atop a bedroll, sweat drying on her brow. Her tunic was lifted to bare the wound, and her skin, usually pearlescent and unblemished, was now scored with jagged, angry red.
It hadn’t stopped bleeding as fast as he expected.
Not for someone touched by divine fire.
Not for a woman wielding the power of gods.
He dipped the cloth into the basin again, wrung it once, and pressed it gently to the edge of her wound. Her breath hissed through her teeth.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
The sound of the cloth swished. The fire crackled low.
Then, her voice soft —closer to sleep whispered.
“I thought it would heal faster.”
Alarik’s jaw clenched. He dabbed again, more slowly this time.
“Your body is like ours, although it’s no longer human, but it still takes some time to fully heal,” he said. “Even if your power is beyond ours.”
Her eyes fluttered open, just a little. “But the sigil…”
“Is a weapon,” he finished for her. “Not a shield. Not for you.”
She didn’t answer, but her fingers curled slightly into the edge of her bedroll. A silent sign of discomfort, and exhaustion.
He reached for the salve Zarion had handed him earlier, one of the fae-blessed kinds that stung like hell but prevented rot. He applied it in slow, careful strokes. She winced but didn’t pull away.
“I hate that I’m now just a weapon,” she whispered, finally.
He glanced up.
A heartbeat passed.
Then he said, “You aren't to us.”
She blinked at that. Her lips parted like she wanted to argue but no words came. Just silence. A shared space where neither had to pretend.
He secured a fresh bandage around her ribs, careful not to touch more than he had to, though every fiber of him ached to brush her skin. To hold her. To feel her weight against him and know she was safe.
Instead, he shifted to sit beside her on the bedroll, his back against the tent post. The wind hissed outside, and somewhere in the darkness, an owl called once.
