His explanation bounced off me as pain and panic edged back, my breaths shortening, chest tightening as weakness pulled at me again. Flashes of control came, moments where I swallowed the sobs, glared at him, but they slipped away, leaving me drifting in the haze.
He stayed close, monitoring, his presence a tense anchor in the claustrophobic room, rough and focused, not offering apologies or softness. But underneath, I sensed the cracks, the way his hands lingered a second too long, the faint shake when he wiped away blood from my face.
The drifts continued, pulling me in and out like a tide, each surfacing bringing fresh waves of sensation. Pain throbbed in rhythms, synced to the runes' glow, a heat that sealed but didn't heal, leaving the stump raw and exposed under the bandages. Xavian's hands were everywhere in those fragments, pressing, wrapping, applying more of that paste that burned before numbing. I heard him muttering again, incantations or curses, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through my body where he held me steady.
In one clearer moment, I fixed on Xavian as he worked, his face close enough I could see the sweat tracking down his temple, the tension in his jaw. "Why preserve it?" I whispered, voice cracking, a flash of control letting the question out before panic could swallow it.
He didn't pause, his hands steady as he adjusted the wrapping on my stump, but his voice was rough, strained. "Might be a way to reattach it. In Velrith. If we cross." It was practical, focused, but I caught the undercurrent, the way his eyes avoided mine, shadowed with what might have been regret or fear of what he'd unleashed.
The thought twisted in me, hope tainted by horror, looping back to the impossibility. Reattach? In his world, with magic that had already cost me this? Fury flickered, weak but real, butweakness pulled me under again, fragments blending: his touch on my forehead, cool cloth wiping away sweat; the hum of runes stabilizing the wound; the smell of blood fading slightly as he cleaned.
20
MORGAN
When I surfaced next, panic edged closer to breakdown, breaths coming fast, chest constricting as I stared at the hand, the blade, the blood trail. "I can't... it's gone," I gasped, tears streaming, body trembling despite the weakness. Xavian's hand hovered, ready to clamp down, but he didn't, just pressed on my shoulder, holding me still with tense urgency.
"Breathe," he said, voice rough, focused, glimpses of his own strain showing in the tightness around his eyes. "Panic will kill you faster than the wound. It's sealed. You're not bleeding out."
But the horror didn't listen, looping endlessly: betrayal in his act, disbelief in the loss, the impossible detachment. I tried to fight it, flashes of control where I slowed my breaths, glared at him, but they shattered under the weight, pulling me back into drifts. Alive, yes, but bound deeper to the nightmare, weakness leaving me adrift in pain and confusion, not okay, not whole, just surviving in fragments.
The cycle dragged on, each fade and return layering the terror, the room a prison of blood and runes, Xavian the reluctant keeper holding the pieces. As darkness tugged again,I felt the bind tighten, alive but forever marked by this horror, drifting in the aftermath with no escape.
21
XAVIAN
Blood was everywhere, soaking into the cracks of the concrete floor, staining my hands and knees where I knelt over her, the metallic tang thick in the air like a fog I couldn't escape. Morgan's face was pale, too pale, her skin clammy under my touch as I pressed the fresh bandages tighter against the stump of her wrist, willing the runes to hold, to seal what I'd broken. The glow from the sigils flickered faintly under the wrappings, a blue haze that pulsed with each ragged breath she took, but it wasn't enough, not yet. I could feel the weakness in her pulse, thready and uneven when I checked it at her neck, her body still fighting the shock of blood loss and whatever hell the blade had unleashed inside her. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, unfocused and wild, before drifting shut again, pulling her back into that hazy drift between consciousness and oblivion. I muttered a curse under my breath, low and vicious, aimed at myself more than anything, because this was my doing, my arrogance in thinking I could control the test, could push her limits without shattering her.
The warehouse room felt smaller than ever, the walls pressing in with their warded carvings that now seemedmocking, useless against the catastrophe I'd invited. I replayed it in my mind, over and over, the way I'd held out the hilt to her, watching her fingers wrap around it with that spark of curiosity in her eyes, the same one that had lit her up outside in the sun when the runes responded to her touch. I'd thought it would be simple, a revelation, something to unlock the mystery of why she quieted the blade's hunger. Instead, it had torn through her like a storm, convulsing her body, burning her from within, and I'd been helpless, prying at her grip until the only choice left was the axe. The dull thud of it striking bone echoed in my skull, a sound I couldn't shake, guilt twisting sharper with each replay. I should have known better, should have seen the risk, but I'd been blinded by the progress, by the way things had eased between us, drawing me in deeper than I wanted to admit. Now she lay here, mutilated because of me, her hand severed and preserved in that grotesque shimmer a few feet away, still clutching Virelya as if the blade refused to let her go even now.
I shifted my weight, careful not to jostle her as I reached for the vial of herbal paste again, uncorking it with my teeth and smearing more onto the edges of the bandages. The mixture stung my fingers where they were cut from the struggle, but I ignored it, focusing on the way it seeped into the runes, amplifying their sealing power. It was basic Velrith craft, muted here in the mortal world where the Shardline frayed my abilities, but it would staunch the bleeding, keep infection at bay for a time. Her skin was hot under the wrappings, fever already creeping in as her body fought to heal, and I pressed the back of my hand to her forehead, feeling the warmth there, the slight sheen of sweat.
"Come on," I whispered, more to myself than her, my voice rough from the strain, a silent plea threading through the words. She had to stabilize, had to wake stronger, because we didn't have the luxury of time. The surge from her contact with theblade, that catastrophic release of power, it wouldn't have gone unnoticed. I could feel it in the air even now, a lingering ripple through the Shardline, like a tear in the veil that echoed across the layers. Someone on the other side would sense it, would come investigating, and if it was Nyra or her agents, we'd be cornered here with no defenses strong enough to hold them off.
The thought gnawed at me, a constant undercurrent as I worked, calculating the hours we might have before the first probes arrived. A day, maybe two at most, depending on how thin the veil was in this forsaken city. The warehouse wards would hide us for a while, but not forever, not against a determined seeker. We had to cross soon, back to Velrith where my powers would return in full, where archives and healers might reattach her hand before the preservation rune faded. But she wasn't ready, not like this.
I wiped a cloth across her face, gentle despite the roughness of my hands, brushing away the tear tracks and sweat, my touch lingering a fraction longer than necessary on her cheek. She stirred slightly under it, a soft murmur escaping her lips, and my chest tightened, a fear I hadn't felt in years coiling there, the terror of losing her before I could make this right. It wasn't just guilt; it was something deeper, a pull that had grown in the weeks she'd been here, turning suspicion into reluctant fascination, her sharp words and relentless spirit carving a space in me I hadn't known was empty.
Her eyes opened again, hazy but focusing on me this time, a flicker of recognition cutting through the pain. "Xavian..." Her voice was weak, barely a whisper, laced with confusion and the remnants of panic from earlier. She tried to move her arm, wincing as the stump shifted under the bandages, fresh pain etching lines on her face.
"Easy," I said, keeping my tone low and steady, though it took effort to mask the strain. I pressed her shoulder downgently, holding her still without force, my hand warm against her skin. "Don't fight it. The runes are working, but you need to rest." I didn't elaborate, didn't want to overwhelm her with the full weight of what was coming, but my mind raced ahead, mapping the crossing, the risks it posed in her state. If we moved too soon, the Shardline's pull could unravel her further, but waiting invited pursuit. I checked the bandages again, peeling back the edge just enough to see the wound, the flesh sealed in a raw, puckered line where the axe had fallen. No fresh blood, at least, the runes holding true, but the fever worried me, a sign her body was straining against the trauma.
She swallowed hard, her gaze drifting to the preserved hand across the room, horror flashing in her eyes before she squeezed them shut, a shudder running through her. "It hurts... everything hurts." The words came out broken, and I felt that coil in my chest tighten further, guilt surging.
"I know," I murmured, reaching for a cup of water I'd set nearby, lifting it to her lips with care, supporting her head so she could sip without straining. The movement was instinctive, tender, my fingers brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. "Drink slow. It'll help." She managed a few swallows, her throat working against the dryness, and I set the cup aside, wiping a stray drop from her chin with my thumb. The contact was brief, but it lingered in my mind, a reminder of how far things had shifted, how her presence had become something I couldn't imagine losing. Not just for the quiet she brought to the blade, but for… forher. The way she challenged me, the way she made this exile feel less like endless decay.
As she drifted again, her breathing evening out into shallow rhythms, I leaned back against the wall, exhaustion pulling at me but sleep out of reach. The lantern's flame danced shadows across her face, highlighting the pallor, the faint lines of pain even in unconsciousness. I replayed the surge in my head,the way Virelya's hum had turned vicious, pulling her in with a force I'd never felt before. The blade had reacted to her catastrophically, not rejecting like in the alley but claiming, as if finding something in her that amplified its power. I didn't understand it fully, couldn't piece together the blade’s true nature beyond the hunger and whispers that had plagued me, but this was different, deeper, a revelation through destruction.
The air in the room shifted subtly, a faint vibration through the wards that set my nerves on edge. It was nothing overt, just a ripple, but I knew what it meant: the surge's echo spreading, drawing eyes across the Shardline. I stood quietly, moving to the door to reinforce the carvings, tracing fresh lines with a shard of chalk infused with what power I could muster. The sigils glowed briefly, strengthening the barrier, but it was temporary, a delay at best. If they found us here, with Morgan weakened and me diminished, it would end badly, the blade claimed or destroyed, and her lost in the crossfire. I couldn't let that happen, not after this, not when she'd become the one thing anchoring me beyond survival.
Returning to her side, I knelt again, checking her pulse once more, finding it steadier, the fever holding but not spiking. She murmured in her sleep, her brow furrowing as if trapped in nightmares. I smoothed it with my fingers, a light touch that eased the tension slightly, my hand lingering on her hair, the strands soft under my palm. I adjusted the blanket over her, tucking it around her shoulders to ward off the chill seeping through the warehouse. "Hold on," I whispered, the words barely audible, a plea to whatever forces listened. We had to move soon, before the ripple became a tear.
Time stretched, the night deepening outside the grimy windows, rain starting up again in a soft patter against the roof that did nothing to soothe the tension coiling in me. I kept watch, alternating between tending her and listening fordisturbances in the wards, my mind turning over plans for the crossing. There was a thin spot nearby, an old churchyard where the veil wore thin, echoes of Velrith bleeding through in stone and shadow. If I could get her there, stabilize her enough to endure the shift, we might make it. But she needed strength, needed to wake without the fever breaking her. When she surfaced next, her eyes clearer, searching mine with a mix of pain and accusation, I met her gaze steadily, hiding the turmoil behind a mask of focus.
"You're burning up," I said, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead, the fabric damp from the bucket nearby. "Fever from the wound. The paste should break it soon." I didn't mention the hand, didn't draw her attention to it, though I saw her glance flicker that way, horror shadowing her features before she looked back at me.
"Why?" she whispered, voice hoarse, the question loaded with everything unspoken: why the blade, why the test, why this cost.
