The thought arrives with clarity that cuts through the chaos, precise and undeniable.
The rest of it lurks at the edges of articulation, too large to contain in the failing vessel of my awareness. But I know what it means. I know why the prospect of death has shifted from acceptance to horror, why the peace I found earlier has transformed into desperate resistance.
I want more time.
Not more time in the abstract. Not more years to pursue vengeance against the Choir or more opportunities to use my gifts for purposes I choose. I want more time withhim—the dragon who saw what I was and didn’t run, who watched me kill and protected me anyway, who placed himself as a barrier against every threat without asking permission or expecting gratitude.
I want?—
The thought fragments. My vision darkens. The ritual’s drain reaches a vital depth andpulls, and for a moment, I exist in a space beyond sensation, beyond identity, beyond the framework of a body that can no longer sustain the demands being placed upon it.
Arax.
I’m sorry I never?—
Time loses meaning.
I exist in fragments—brief flashes of awareness that surface through the darkness before being pulled back under. The chamber, half-collapsed around me. The ritual, still pulsing with stolen power. The distant thunder of combat, Oblivion clashing with annihilation somewhere beyond my perception.
In one fragment, I see the Cardinal.
They stand at the ritual’s edge, face erased by the same magic they preach, garments inscribed with glyphs that pulse in rhythm with the framework consuming me. Their pale, washed-out gaze is fixed on the central nexus with an expression that might be worship, might be satisfaction, might be the total void of feeling that defines their philosophy of liberation through ending.
“Soon,” they say, addressing no one. “Soon the realm will understand.”
In another fragment, I feel my heart stuttering.
The rhythm that has sustained me for twenty-seven years falters, skips, attempts to restart, and fails halfway through the contraction. My blood moves sluggishly through vessels that no longer receive proper signals, pooling in extremities that have begun to cool with the absence of circulation.
In a third fragment—the last coherent moment I have—I see Arax.
He stands in the chamber’s entrance, his human form outlined against the chaos of the collapsing Sanctum. His domain radiates outward in visible distortions, Oblivion made manifest in a way I’ve never witnessed. His eyes have gone completely dark, the gold erased by the power he’s channeling,and his attention is fixed on me with an intensity that transcends any tactical consideration.
He’s here.
The recognition brings no relief. He can’t save me—the Cardinal was right about that. His power ends things; it doesn’t restore them. He can erase the ritual, can eliminate the framework that’s consuming me, but he can’t undo the damage already done. He can’t regenerate organs that have begun to shut down, can’t rebuild a bloodline that has been drained past the point of recovery.
He came, and he will watch me die, and there’s nothing either of us can do to change that outcome.
I’m sorry.
The thought is all I’ve left. An apology for drawing him into this. For making him care about a witch who was always destined to end this way. For the impossible choice I’ve forced upon him by being too weak to survive my own heritage.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger.
The fragment ends.
Darkness.
Awareness flickers.
Brief. Unreliable. Like a candle in a windstorm, guttering toward extinction but not quite extinguished.
I feel hands on my face. Cool against the fever-heat of magical backlash. Steady despite the trembling that racks my failing body. Large hands, capable of violence I’ve witnessed, and gentleness I’ve only begun to understand.
I feel breath against my lips. Close. Deliberate. As if someone is testing whether I still possess the capacity to respond.
I feelhim.
