Medical teams from Vale Grace Hospital rush forward, their pristine white uniforms bearing the emerald serpent insignia of the city’s most prestigious healing institute. These aren’t field medics. They’re trauma-specialized arcanists trained in reversing magical catastrophes, treating essence poisoning, and pulling the dying back from the brink.
“I’m fine,” I murmur against Rowe’s chest, but my words slur slightly. “You can put me down.”
“No.” His voice cracks, arms locking tighter around me. “She needs help!” he says again, louder this time, almost pleading. “She was breathing that thing’s toxin for too long. Her skin’s freezing.”
An inhuman shriek pierces through the air, making the shields ripple with strain. Rowe’s body curves around mine instinctively, shielding me from the sound. Two enforcers immediately step forward, their Plasma Arcs humming to life as they reinforce the seal with military-grade magic.
“We need to get you both checked immediately.” A stern-faced woman with a commander insignia says.
Rowe doesn’t argue. He carries me to the medical transport, refusing to let go until the healers finish warding the triage unit and preparing a clean space. “Her first,” he snarls when they try to examine him. “She collapsed. She was coughing blood. Help her. I’m fine . . . just . . . please.”
“Rowe,” I croak, vision blurring again. “You breathed it too. Let the medics check you.”
He shakes his head, eyes wild and haunted. “I can’t watch them help me while you’re . . .” He swallows hard. “I need to know you’re safe first. Please, Aria.”
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper, but it feels like a lie I need him to believe.
A Vale healer kneels beside me, hands alight with cold, silvery magic that pours into my chest, the chill smothering fire until my lungs loosen. The pain doesn’t vanish, but it yields. Rowe keeps his gaze on mine, jaw locked so tightly the muscles twitch. When the healers finally convince him to accept treatment, he only agrees on a single condition: he won’t let go of my hand.
Three of them work in seamless unison, one uncorking a crystal vial of shimmering elixir and tipping it to his lips, another running diagnostics on a SpellScreen blinking with his vitals, while the third channels pure restorative energy into his chest. The golden light pulses in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Even then, he keeps his eyes on me, as if willing me to keep breathing.
“Hold still,” my healer mutters, distracted, already reaching for a standard-issue syringe. The liquid inside pulses with a sickly green glow; nothing like the pristine remedies being administered to Rowe. She jabs the needle into my arm without ceremony, her movements mechanical. “This should do the job.”
Rowe’s head snaps up, eyes locking on the syringe with sudden, lethal focus. “What is that?” His voice is low and razor-sharp. “Why isn’t she receiving the same treatment I am?”
“Standard protocol, sir,” one of his healers says quickly, trying to redirect him. “She’ll be fine. Now please stay still while we finish the purification sequence.”
“Protocol?” His tone curdles. “She was exposed the same way I was. She needs—”
“Rowe,” I interrupt, trying to sound steadier than I am as the serum burns through my bloodstream. My heart hammers against my ribs, nausea coils in my gut, and my vision begins to tilt. “I’m okay. Really.” But even as the words leave my lips, I see the fear flash across his face.
“Like hell you are,” he growls, shoving himself upright despite the healers trying to hold him down. “Look at her! She’s barely conscious and you’re giving her standard issue while I get—”
The crowd parts abruptly, silence rippling outward as Alexander Darkmoor strides into view, his presence swallowing the space between us. He moves untouched through the chaos, suit unwrinkled, steps soundless, expression carved from something colder than stone. Even the air seems to still in deference, debris sliding aside as if instinct itself refuses to touch him. Rowe’s hand tightens around mine, and he shifts slightly, positioning himself between me and Alexander despite the medical bed.
For the briefest moment, something fractures across Alexander’s mask—a flicker of raw fear at the sight of his son, alive but exposed—before fury buries it once more.
“You were supposed to be halfway to the sanctuary,” Alexander says. “Explain to me, Rowe, what possessed you to disobey a direct order and be inside my building during an active containment breach.”
“Your containment breach nearly killed her,” Rowe spits, still refusing to let go of my hand. His pulse thuds against my skin, wild and erratic. “Where was your legendary security? Your fortified wards? She could have died!”
“It wasn’t Rowe’s fault,” I try to say, but the words collapse into a coughing fit that leaves blood on my tongue.
“Get the medics back here,” Rowe demands, voice cracking under the weight of panic. “She’s getting worse—”
“You don’t give orders here,” Alexander snaps. “You were never meant to be exposed to—” He catches himself, jaw tightening.
That’s when I see Luna across the street, flanked by tactical enforcers, her attention fixed on the SpellScreen as she documents the aftermath with detached precision, hands steady, eyes cold, as though none of it could ever touch her.
Red bleeds into the edges of my vision. The toxin burning through my veins makes everything sharper, brighter, more painful. Before I even register the movement, I’m already on my feet, swaying but snarling in Alexander’s face.
“This was you, wasn’t it? One of your little lab pets got loose? Or maybe this was the plan all along—”
“Lower your voice,” Alexander replies coolly, unfazed.
“How many others?” I demand, barely holding myself upright. “How many hybrid creatures are buried in your labs? How many are waiting to be unleashed?”
