And utterly magnificent in her refusal to yield.
His shadows, without his permission, reached out to brush against her shoulder. A whisper of contact, checking, reassuring themselves that she was there.
He pulled them back sharply. This wasn't the time for any of what he was feeling.
"We need to reach the transport circle," he said, slinging the equipment harness across his shoulders. The weight was familiar,grounding. "Stay close once we reach the failure zone. The magic there won't be stable."
Understatement. The magic would be actively hostile, unpredictable in ways that defied natural law.
She nodded once.
She's going to get herself killed.
She's going to get both of them killed.
But he hadn't left her here. Because she was right, and because working alone would be more perilous, and because...
Because the thought of her waiting here, unknowing, bothered him beyond all reason.
Together, they moved toward the door and whatever catastrophe awaited in the neutral zones.
They'd barely crossed the threshold when another tremor struck. Stronger than all the others combined. The palace groaned, and somewhere in the distance, something shattered with a sound like breaking reality.
They were running out of time.
XXIV.
BRYNN
They emerged in the outer reaches of his domain, where the Forsaken truly dwelled.
This far from the palace, the realm showed its true nature. Ruins of unfinished homes dotted the landscape—doorways carved from black stone opening onto nothing, windows reflecting only darkness. Willow trees grew between them, branches hanging down like grasping hands. Memorial stones stood in clusters, names obscured by grime and years of neglect.
The ground held remnants of interrupted lives—a child's toy in the dust. Rusted chains half-buried. Yellowed letters, words lost to time. Each one a small tragedy.
The air tasted of old grief, thick enough to coat her throat with each breath.
She'd thought she understood what his realm was. She'd been wrong.
But even this landscape of sorrow was corrupted now. The failing ward-lock had twisted everything within miles.
The doorways flickered, showing glimpses of final moments—locked rooms where people died alone, abandoned streets, forgotten hospital beds. The willow branches writhed—the memorial stones pulsed with that sickly yellow light, names glowing and fading like dying embers.
Worse than the physical corruption: what moved among the ruins.
Translucent figures drifted at the edges of her vision, drawn to the instability. She caught glimpses of faces. Aching, desperate, reaching. They crowded against some invisible barrier, stretching toward her with terrible need.
Her steps faltered.
This is what he lives with. Every day. Every moment.
"Stay close." Dante moved closer than he usually would, his shadows forming a protective barrier around them both. His voice held an edge she hadn't heard before. "The ward failure is breaking down the containment zones. The Forsaken can see your warmth now."
She nodded, unable to look away. There were so many of them. Dozens were visible from where they stood, and probably hundreds more just beyond her perception.
Her chest tightened.
"They won't hurt you," he said, though his shadows remained ready. "They can't touch the living. But they're drawn to your life. They remember what it was like to be seen, to be acknowledged."
