Not through any mystical sense—the Yael bloodline has no special sensitivity to dragons. But weeks at his side have taught me the particular quality of attention he brings, the absolute focus that sees everything and dismisses nothing. I know it’s Arax the same way I know my own heartbeat, even as that heartbeat stutters toward silence.
“Tanith.”
My name in his voice. Different now—raw in a way I’ve never heard, stripped of the control that usually defines his every word. The effect penetrates even here, even now, even in the space between living and dying where sensation has become theoretical.
“Stay.”
A command. Not a request—Arax doesn’t make requests, not when it matters. He delivers demands and expects compliance, applies his will to situations that should be beyond control, refuses to accept outcomes that contradict his intentions.
I want to obey. Want to find the strength to anchor myself in the fragment of consciousness he’s provided, to pull back from the edge that’s claiming me with increasing insistence.
I can’t.
His hands tighten on my face. I feel them through the numbness, feel the pressure of fingers that have killed hundreds but touch me now with devastating care. He’s close—close enough that I smell blood and the sharp electric tang of Oblivion recently discharged. Close enough that his breath mingles with mine in the small space between our mouths.
“You will not die.”
Four words. Absolute. Carrying the same finality he brings to every target he eliminates, every threat he erases, every obstacle that stands between him and his objectives.
I’m sorry.
