The explosion wasn’t fire or glass—it wassoundless, a bloom of oily black goo that sprayed out like a net. It hit the loft beams witha sickeningslap, strands stretching between the timbers like spiderwebs dipped in pitch.
Whatever it was, it wasn't meant to kill.
It was meant to trap.
“Rell,” she breathed, eyes snapping to the loft. But there was nothing. No flicker of movement. No whisper of sound. Just black sludge dripping down warped beams and a heavy silence that clawed at her nerves.
Was he caught? Gone? She couldn’t sense him. Her panic was too loud, a storm in her head drowning out everything else.
Focus. Trust him.
But trust didn’t stop the fear from coiling tighter around her ribs.
Fane moved.
The sharpcrackof his coil lashed through the barn, slicing the air. Elora dove to the side, the barbs missing her face by inches. The sting of displaced air grazed her cheek. She hit the dirt hard, rolled, came up crouched with her claws bared.
Fane didn’t slow. Despite his bulk, he was quick, too quick, using the narrow confines of the barn to corner her. Another snap of the whip came low. She leaped, barely clearing it, her boots skidding in the dirt as she landed. The scent of old hay mixed with ozone and blood in the back of her throat.
She was fast. But not forever.
Where are you, Rell?
He hadn’t left. He wouldn’t. She shoved the doubt down, buried it beneath muscle memory and instinct. Her body moved on autopilot now—duck, pivot, slash, breathe—dodging each brutal strike, never able to get close enough to land one of her own.
Then Fane overextended.
His whip slammed into a cracked beam with a shuddering impact. Dust rained down. And for one heartbeat, he was open.
Elora lunged, claws ready to tear.
A grunt—sharp, surprised.
Fane stumbled. Not from her.
From behind him, a blade had sliced clean across his ankle joint, just under the alchemical plating. Rell’s blade.
Elora’s breath caught as she saw it, a flicker of silver, a twist of shadow.
Fane snarled and spun, his hand slamming toward the void beside him. The shadows peeled back like smoke on the wind, and Rell appeared, choking in Fane’s grasp.
Fane had him.
Lifted off the ground like a rag doll, Rell’s boots kicked against the air, one hand clawing at the giant’s wrist, the other groping for his belt. His face was strained, but his eyes—gods, thoseeyes—they were locked on hers.
Not pleading. Commanding.
He flicked his gaze downward—toward her hip.
The dagger.
Her hand was already moving before the thought finished. She ripped it free, the enchantment humming through her fingers like a living thing.
She charged.
Fane didn’t see her coming until she was already on him.
Elora leaped, using his own armor as leverage. Her claws dug in for balance, and with a shout, she drove the dagger into the meat of his forearm.
