Blood, I realized dimly, my blood, staining his fingers and pooling on the floor beneath us.
He was muttering under his breath, words I couldn't quite catch, his voice rough and edged with something that sounded almost like fear. One of his hands pressed down hard on my wrist, holding it steady while the other traced patterns in the air above it, faint lines that shimmered briefly, like the runes we'd drawn outside earlier, but these glowed with a sickly blue light that made my skin crawl.
I faded again, the darkness tugging at me insistently, but not before feeling the heat from those runes seep into my flesh, a strange warmth that battled the cold seeping through my body.
It hurt, god it hurt, like fire meeting ice inside my veins, but there was a purpose to it, a sealing sensation that dulled the throbbing just enough to let me breathe. The smell of blood intensified, cloying and overwhelming, mixed now with the acrid tang of whatever he was doing. His touch was rough, not gentle, fingers digging in to hold me still as I twitched involuntarily, my body reacting to the pain even if my mind couldn't keep up.
I heard him curse softly, the sound close to my ear, his breath warm against my cheek as he leaned in to adjust the wrapping. "Stay with me," he said, the words clipped and urgent, but they dissolved into the fog as I slipped under once more.
19
MORGAN
When awareness clawed its way back again, it brought clarity in jagged pieces, enough to make sense of the fragments.
I was on the floor of the warehouse room, the cold concrete biting into my back through my clothes, the lantern's dim light casting flickering shadows on the walls.
My head throbbed, a dull ache behind my eyes, and my mouth was dry, tasting of copper and bile. The pain in my wrist had settled into a constant burn, wrapped tight but still radiating heat that made sweat prickle along my skin.
Xavian was still there, kneeling over me, his coat discarded nearby, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, arms streaked with blood that looked black in the low light. He was focused on my arm, tying off the bandages with quick, efficient movements, his jaw set in a hard line. I tried to lift my head to see what he was doing, but weakness pinned me down, my muscles trembling with the effort.
That's when I felt it.
That wrongness from before, an absence that screamed in my nerves even before my mind could name it. Panic flickered atthe edges of my thoughts, but it was distant at first, muffled by the fog of blood loss and shock. I flexed my fingers instinctively, or tried to, but nothing happened, no sensation of movement, just an empty echo. My breath hitched, a shallow gasp that drew Xavian's attention, his eyes snapping to mine.
"Morgan," he said, his voice low and steady, though I could see the strain in it, the way his hands shook slightly as he reached for a nearby cloth to wipe away more blood. "Don't move. It's... it's done. I had to."
Had to what? The question formed slowly in my mind, but before I could voice it, my gaze drifted past him, drawn by some instinctive pull to the floor a few feet away.
There, lying in a small pool of congealing blood, was the blade. Virelya, its hilt still gripped by... by my hand. My severed hand, fingers curled tight around the leather, knuckles white even in detachment, the cut clean but brutal, bone and flesh exposed at the wrist where it had been hacked away. Blood trailed from it, a dark smear leading back to me, connecting us in a grotesque line across the concrete.
The sight hit me like a physical blow, slamming through the haze and igniting full, visceral horror. My stomach lurched, bile rising hot in my throat, and a scream built in my chest, raw and unfiltered. This couldn't be real, couldn't be happening, that part of me lying there, detached, still holding the thing that had caused all this. Betrayal surged, hot and furious, mixing with disbelief that clawed at my thoughts. He did this. Xavian, the one who'd dragged me here, tested me, pushed me to touch that cursed blade, and now he'd cut me apart to save me? Or to save himself? The room spun, my vision narrowing to that severed hand, the fingers I'd used to trace runes just hours ago, now lifeless and wrong, attached to the nightmare weapon like some macabre trophy.
I thrashed weakly, my body trying to recoil, to deny it, but the movement sent fresh agony shooting up my arm, the stump throbbing with renewed fire. The scream escaped then, ragged and broken, echoing off the walls as panic flooded me, chest tightening until I could barely breathe. "No, no, what did you do? My hand... oh god, my hand..." The words tumbled out, slurred and frantic, tears blurring my eyes as I stared at it, unable to look away. Fury boiled up, weak but burning, directed at him, at the blade, at everything that had led to this moment. I tried to sit up, to lunge at him or away, anything to escape the reality crashing down, but my strength failed, leaving me gasping and trembling on the floor.
Xavian's hand clamped over my mouth suddenly, muffling the next scream before it could fully form. His palm was rough against my lips, tasting of blood and sweat, and he leaned in close, his weight pinning my shoulders down to keep me still. "Stop," he growled, his voice tense, laced with that urgent control that brooked no argument. "Be still, Morgan. You're making it worse." His eyes bored into mine, dark with a mix of command and something fractured, a glimpse of the shake in his composure, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.
I struggled against him, or tried to, my breaths coming in hot bursts against his palm, panic clawing at my throat as tears streamed down my face. The room felt smaller, claustrophobic, the air thick with the stench of blood and the weight of what he'd done. Rage twisted in my gut, looping back to that severed hand every time I closed my eyes, the image burned into my mind. I bit at his hand weakly, tasting salt and iron, but he didn't flinch, just pressed harder, his face inches from mine, breath ragged.
"Listen," he said, his tone rough, focused, though I caught the faint tremor in it, the way his eyes flicked to the stump and back, shadowed with what might have been guilt or horror of his own."I had no choice. The blade was killing you, pulling you in. This was the only way to break it."
He shifted slightly, keeping his hand over my mouth but easing the pressure just enough to let me breathe, his other hand working quickly to check the bandages, tightening them where blood had seeped through. The runes glowed again under his touch, a heat that seeped into the wound, sealing it further, but it stung like acid, making me whimper against his palm.
Panic surged anew, my chest heaving as I tried to process his words, but they bounced off the wall of horror in my mind. No choice? He'd chosen to let me touch it, chosen to test me, and now this. My hand, lying there, still gripping the hilt as if refusing to let go even in separation. Weakness dragged at me, pulling me toward darkness, but I fought it, flashes of control breaking through the panic, enough to glare at him over his hand, to convey the fury and betrayal without words.
He released my mouth slowly, watching me warily, ready to clamp down again if I screamed. I gasped in air, choking on sobs that I tried to swallow, the effort making my head spin.
"You... you cut it off," I whispered, voice hoarse and broken, tears hot on my cheeks. "How could you... that's my hand, over there, like garbage." The words cracked, panic edging back in, my breath coming too fast, too shallow, verging on hyperventilation. The room tilted, fragments of the earlier surge flashing in my mind, the whispers, the entity, but they were overshadowed by this new horror, the physical loss that grounded it all in brutal reality.
Xavian didn't answer right away, his focus shifting back to the wound, his hands steady despite the tension radiating from him. He reached for a small vial from his coat pocket, uncorking it with his teeth and pouring a thick, herbal-smelling paste onto the bandages. It burned as he smeared it over the stump, the runes absorbing it and flaring brighter, a blue glow thatmade the pain spike before numbing it slightly. "Had to stop the bleeding," he muttered, more to himself than me, his voice rough, edged with that shaken undercurrent. "Runes will seal it, keep infection out. But you lost a lot of blood. Stay down."
He finished with the wrist, tying off the bandages with a final tug that made me hiss, then turned his attention to the floor, to the blade and... and my hand. Panic flared again, my breath catching as he moved toward it, his movements tense, shoulders rigid. "What are you doing?" I managed, voice faint, a edge of hysteria creeping in. "Don't... don't touch it."
"Preserving it," he said flatly, though his voice cracked slightly, betraying the strain. He didn't look at me, focused on the task, but I saw the way his hands hesitated for a fraction before gripping the blade's edge carefully, avoiding the hilt where my fingers still clutched it. He traced a rune with a strange pen like object, a blue glow enveloping the severed hand, sealing it in a faint shimmer that stopped the blood from pooling further. It was grotesque, watching him work on that detached part of me, like it was an object, not flesh that had been mine moments ago.
I tried to sit up again, panic pushing through the weakness, but my body betrayed me, slumping back as dizziness washed over. "You monster," I whispered, fury breaking through in flashes, though tears diluted it. “You mutilated me.”
Xavian finally looked at me, his eyes shadowed, the tension in his face deeper now, lines etched around his mouth that hadn't been there before. "I saved your life," he said, voice rough, almost defensive, though I caught the flicker of something raw in it, like the act had shaken him more than he let on. He wiped his hands on a rag, blood smearing across the fabric, and moved back to me, checking the bandages once more, his touch pressing down to test the seal. "The blade... this was the only way."
