The promise had been twisted. Turned back on itself. Used like a noose.
Eiren.
That fucking bitch.
“NO!” Kael roared, shadows exploding from his skin as he surged forward, but it was already done, Alarik’s blade had already fallen, Maris had already collapsed.
Too late.
He was too late.
Alarik's sword was through his own chest now, his eyes distant.
Kael didn’t fault him.
No, he could blame him, had he been forced to commit the same treason of heart, he would have driven a blade through his own chest to face whatever hell he deserved.
They had made an oath.
He dropped to his knees beside her, skidding in ash and blood.
She was still warm.
He gathered her into his arms, cradled her against his chest like something holy, something broken.
Her crown slipped sideways. Her blood soaked his hands.
His body trembled in sicking terror.
“Maris,” he choked. “No. No, no, no.”
Tears threatened to spill over, he couldn't breathe. He didn’t want to, with her soul extinguished.
He pressed his forehead to hers.
Then he felt a whisper creep along his spine. Not in a physical sense but through a bond they he thought long lost.
Soft. Barely sound at all. A ghost against his throat.
Kael
His name.
His curse.
Broken. Glorious.
As if she were the one comforting him.
And in a voice that cracked what remained of his soul, she breathed:
It is done.
Kael shook his head.
“No. You’re not done. Don’t you fucking dare be done.”
But her eyes were still blank.
