“She was mine,” he whispered, the words breaking in his throat. “My light. My world. My life.”
The shadows inside him surged, screaming.
“Faster, Son of Darkness.”
The voice was Llunal’s, whispering sharply in his ears.
“Faster. She is coming.”
The Queen.
If her sangins had found Hope, then the Queen was not far behind. And if the Queen touched her, desecrated her body, stole even her death from her—
Ciaran’s arms tightened, cradling her closer. He gathered every shred of shadow he had left, the deepest black of his soul, and drowned them both in it.
The world blurred, bent, broke. He ran.
Through forest, through stone, through the night itself. The shadows carried them, faster than flesh could ever move, the ground vanishing beneath his strides.
Hope’s body was weightless against him, though every step tore him open deeper. Her hair whipped against his jaw, sticky with blood. Her skin chilled in the wind, colder with every heartbeat that did not come.
He had carried her like this before. Twice he had stolen her back from death’s grip, after her Fifth Ceremony and during his Healing ordeal in the Fifth Crusade. He dragged her across thatline with magic, rage, and willpower alone. But this—this felt different. Stronger. Definite.
This was no close call. This was the abyss yawning wide, ready to take her.
“Please,” he rasped, voice raw against the wind as the shadows bore them faster, deeper, until the forest melted away. “Not you,please. Not you.”
He did not stop at the West House’s gates, but crossed the epitellia wards that would protect them from the Queen’s arrival. He did not wait for healers, did not shout for his father, did not care who saw. He stormed past the war chamber, past startled guards, shadows cracking the marble under his boots. Straight down to the private Healing chamber.
The white room gleamed with silent light. The walls were carved from crystal, veins of gems glowing faintly in pale colors. The air smelled of salt and steel, of Healing power kept here for those who needed saving.
He laid her on the crystal bed. The white surface glowed faintly beneath her weight, as if even the stone recognized who she was.
“Breathe,” he begged, shadows curling desperately around her still chest. He pressed his palms to her sternum, shadows pumping, forcing, pleading. He poured everything into her—his command, his life, his will, his love.
His whole being roared with a single truth: she could not leave him. Not now. Not ever.
Her lips stayed bloodied and still. Her eyelashes, dark against pale skin, did not flutter.
Ciaran’s jaw locked, his shadows writhing, slamming against the chamber walls. The crystals overhead cracked with the pressure of his unleashed power, shards raining like tears.
“You destroyed them,” he whispered hoarsely, staring at her lifeless form. “You gave everything, and more, my beauty.” Hecaressed her black hair away from her still features. “My fierce, brave woman. You can’t be gone.”
The word “gone” stuck like glass in his throat, carving him hollow.
He bent over her, forehead pressed to hers, shadows wrapping them both like a veil. His breath came in ragged gasps, his tears soaking into her blood-matted hair.
He had always thought he could beat death. That if he clawed hard enough, raged loud enough, he could steal her back. He had done it before, twice. But this time…this time he could feel it. The silence was heavier. The stillness, even more final.
“Take me instead, Cardinals, Llunal,” he whispered, voice cracking, the words trembling into the chamber’s white air. “Take me. Just not her.”
They didn’t answer, because they weren’t the deities responsible for death.
The crystals around them dimmed, as if in mourning. His shadows sagged, spilling across the floor like black blood.
Ciaran kissed her brow, his lips trembling, and the words tore out of him—final, broken, absolute.
“You were the one thing even death should have feared.”
