"You're awake," he said, his voice low and rough, crossing the space to kneel beside the cot. He reached out, almost instinctively, to check the bandages, his fingers brushing the edge of the wrapping with that same restrained care I'dremembered. Up close, I could see the strain in his face, the way his jaw clenched, holding back whatever storm brewed inside him. "How's the pain? Can you move it?"
I swallowed hard, my throat dry, but I met his gaze steadily, pushing down the flicker of vulnerability that threatened to surface. "It hurts like hell, but I'm not drifting anymore. Listen, before you start poking at it again... you weren't wrong about making me touch the blade. We did learn something. Or I did, anyway."
He paused, his hand stilling on the bandage, eyes narrowing with a mix of surprise and that intense focus he got when chasing answers. "What do you mean? You were burning up, screaming like you were being shredded apart from the inside. The surge nearly killed you. What could you have learned from that?"
I took a shaky breath, the memories of it flooding back in fragments, sharp and overwhelming even now. The fire in my veins, the whispers turning to roars, the sense of being pulled into something vast and enclosed. I didn't understand all of it, couldn't piece it together into a neat picture, but the core of it had burned itself into me, a truth I couldn't shake. "I don't get it fully, okay? It was all broken up, like shards of things that weren't mine smashing into my head. Memories, sensations, voices. But the blade... it's not what you think. Or not just a cursed sword. It's a prison, Xavian. There's something inside it, trapped, bound up in the metal. An entity, or whatever you want to call it. That's what you've been feeding all this time, not the blade itself. The blade's just holding it in, containing its power. When I touched it, it... it reached out, pulled me in, like I was inside the prison with it. I felt its hunger, its grief, old and violent. Rituals, blood, fire—binding it down, forcing it into that form. I don't know what it is exactly, or why, but it's real, and it's starving in there."
His expression shifted, shock rippling across his features, raw and unguarded, his eyes widening as he processed my words. He leaned in closer, his hand gripping my shoulder now, not hard but insistent, urgency flooding his voice. "A prison? What do you mean, an entity? Tell me everything— the memories, the voices. What did they say? Did you see how it was bound? Who?—"
He cut himself off abruptly, his head snapping toward the door as if hearing something I couldn't, his body tensing like a wire pulled taut. The shift was sudden, his focus fracturing from the revelation to whatever loomed outside, and when he looked back at me, his eyes were dark with a new edge, protective and fierce. "Damn it. We're out of time. That surge, it tore through the Shardline like a signal flare. Someone came through already, one of Nyra's dogs, scouting. I sent him back, but he'll report, and more will follow. Fast. The wards won't hold them off for long. We can't stay here."
I stared at him, my mind reeling from the whiplash, the pain in my arm flaring as I tried to sit up further, weakness making my vision swim. "What? Now? Xavian, I can barely move. This... this thing just happened. You cut off my hand, and now you're saying we have to run? To your world? I thought we had time, that I'd heal or something. I still don’t even know who the fuck Nyra is!"
He shook his head, his grip on my shoulder steadying me, but his voice was blunt, no room for argument. "We don't. That ripple drew them right to us. If we stay, they'll tear this place open, take you, dissect whatever tie you have to the blade. And me... they'll finish what the exile started. We cross now, or we die here. The Shardline's thin spot is close, an old abandoned churchyard not far. But it's not exactly safe. The crossing could kill us both in your state—rip you apart if you're too weak.But staying? That's certain death. They'll be here by tomorrow, maybe sooner."
Fear coiled in my gut, mixing with exhaustion and the pain throbbing from my wrist. The memories from the blade lingered, fragments of fire and binding that made his world feel even more terrifying, a place of rituals and magical prisons where things like that entity were forged and contained. And now he wanted to drag me there, weak and feverish, with enemies on our heels. It sounded insane, impossible, my body screaming that I couldn't even stand, let alone flee through some magical veil. But his eyes held mine, urgent and dark, that protective edge sharper than I'd seen, like he was bracing for the worst but refusing to leave me behind. It clashed with the care I'd remembered, the way he'd tended me through the drifts, gentle in his roughness, making this moment feel heavier, more tangled. He wasn't just saving himself; he was pulling me with him, into the unknown, and that unwilling trust flickered in me despite everything.
I swallowed hard, pain and fear making my voice shaky but sharp. "You're serious. Cross now and maybe die, or just die. That's the choice? God, Xavian, I feel like I'm already halfway gone. But if they're coming... if staying means…” I trailed off, the reality sinking in. No good options, only survival scraping by on whatever we had left. Weakness tugged at me, but I met his gaze, dry resolve pushing through. "I guess we go. Even if it kills us."
He nodded once, the tension in his face easing just a fraction, though the urgency remained, his hand lingering on my shoulder before he helped me up, careful but insistent, the decision sealing us to the run toward a world I still barely understood, with pain and shadows chasing us every step.
24
MORGAN
The decision hung in the air between us like smoke from a dying fire, thick and inescapable, and for a moment, I just sat there on the cot, my good hand gripping the edge of the thin mattress as if it could anchor me to this side of reality. My stump throbbed under the bandages, a steady pulse that radiated up my arm and into my shoulder, making every breath feel like an effort. Now that the fever had broken, my mind was sharper, cutting through the fog with a clarity that only amplified the fear coiling in my gut. Crossing into his world, Velrith, whatever that meant—slipping through some invisible veil that separated here from there—sounded like stepping off a cliff in the dark. And doing it now, with my body still reeling from the blade's surge and the brutal severance that followed, felt like madness. But Xavian's eyes, dark and urgent as he stood over me, left no room for debate. Enemies were coming, drawn by the magical flare I'd unwittingly set off, and staying meant facing them in this crumbling warehouse where I could barely stand.
"One hour," he said, his voice low and clipped, already turning toward the door as if the clock in his head was tickinglouder than mine. "That's all we have. I need to prepare—gather what supplies I can, set runes around the perimeter to mask our trail as much as possible. My power's too stifled here to force a clean crossing on its own; I'll have to channel it through anchors, build a temporary gate at the thin spot. Stay put, rest if you can. Don't touch anything that might stir the wards."
I nodded weakly, though frustration bubbled up alongside the fear, making my voice sharper than it should have been in my state. "Rest? Like I have a choice. Just... make sure whatever you're doing works. I don't want to end up scattered across dimensions or whatever happens if this goes wrong."
He paused at the threshold, glancing back with a flicker of something almost like reassurance in his eyes, though his face remained taut, lined with the same exhaustion I felt echoing in my bones. "It'll work. We make it through, and there are healers on the other side who can do more for you than I can here." He didn't elaborate, didn't promise miracles, and then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud that echoed in the empty room.
Alone, the silence pressed in, broken only by the distant patter of rain starting up again outside, a soft rhythm that did nothing to ease the knot in my chest. One hour. Sixty minutes to lie here, stewing in pain and uncertainty, while he scrambled to stitch together our escape. It felt like a cruel joke, my body too wrecked to help, too weak to do anything but wait. I shifted on the cot, propping myself up against the wall, and my gaze fell to the bandaged stump of my right arm, resting awkwardly in my lap. The wrappings were tight, layered with that paste he'd smeared on, and under them, I could feel the faint warmth of the runes he'd drawn, a subtle vibration that hummed against my skin like a low current.
Frustration gnawed at me, sharper now that I was alone with it, and I lifted my left hand to trace the edges of the bandages,feeling the raised lines where the runes poked out from under the fabric. Outside, in that overgrown lot under the sun, tracing similar lines in the dirt had felt like discovering a hidden part of myself, a spark that responded to my touch and made the air shimmer. It had been exhilarating, in a reckless sort of way, proof that maybe I wasn't just a victim in this nightmare, that there was something in me tied to his world, capable of more than enduring. But now, with the clock ticking and my body betraying me at every turn, that spark felt distant, buried under layers of pain and fatigue.
I carefully pulled back the bandages enough to reveal the full runes, following the curve of one, a looping shape that twisted back on itself like a knot. There was a faint tingle under my touch, not painful but alive, as if the mark recognized the pressure and responded with a subtle pulse. Frustration mixed with fascination, pulling me deeper despite the ache it stirred in my arm. What were these things, really? Xavian had explained them in bits and pieces during our talks, wards and sigils drawn from his world's power, channeling intent into barriers or seals. But hearing about it was one thing; feeling it hum under my skin was another, intimate and unsettling, like the runes were part of me now, woven into the wound he'd inflicted. I traced another, this one sharper, with intersecting lines that formed a star-like pattern, and the vibration strengthened, sending a warmth spreading up my arm that dulled the throbbing just a fraction.
The hour stretched ahead, empty and urgent, and sitting here doing nothing felt like letting the pain and weakness define me while danger closed in. Xavian was out there, carving his protections, channeling whatever power he could muster in this stifled world, and I was supposed to just wait, a broken passenger in my own escape. But the runes on my arm whispered otherwise, that faint hum urging me to push, to see if I could tap into whatever had woken outside. If I couldunderstand them, even roughly, maybe I could steady myself, draw on that spark to fight off the weakness dragging at me.
One rune in particular stood out, its lines forming a spiral that tightened into a point, similar to something I'd felt in the dirt earlier, when the air had shimmered strongest under my fingers. Outside, it had amplified the bind, Xavian had said, strengthening the barrier. What if I could use something like that here, on myself, to amplify... what? My strength? The healing? It sounded reckless, half-formed in my mind, but the alternative was lying here, fading while time ran out. The pocketknife sat on the makeshift table nearby, the one he'd used to cut bandages and cloth during those fevered hours, its blade folded but sharp enough for what I had in mind. My heart picked up, a mix of fear and resolve making my hand tremble as I reached for it with my left, the motion awkward and slow, my body protesting the effort.
This was insane, I knew it even as I unfolded the blade, the metal glinting dully in the lantern light. Carving into my own skin? What if it made things worse, opened the wound or invited infection the runes were holding back? But the weakness was a chain, binding me to this cot while enemies approached, and if there was even a chance this could help, could give me enough strength to stand and face whatever came next, I had to try. The hour was slipping away, Xavian's preparations humming faintly through the walls, and I couldn't just wait for rescue or ruin. I rolled up the sleeve of my good arm, exposing the skin above my elbow, pale and unmarked. The knife's edge hovered there, cold against my flesh, and I hesitated, breath catching as doubt flooded in. Pain I knew, but this was self-inflicted, a deliberate choice in a sea of chaos.
No, not deliberate—impulsive, driven by the need to not be helpless anymore. I pressed the blade down, the initial cut shallow but stinging, a line of red welling up as I began to tracethe spiral, following the shape I'd felt on the bandages. It hurt, god it hurt, the knife biting deeper than I'd intended on the curve, fire lancing through my arm as blood slicked the metal, making my grip slippery. I bit my lip hard, tasting salt, stifling the gasp that wanted to escape, because if Xavian heard and came running, he'd stop me, see this as the madness it probably was. But I kept going, carving the twist of the spiral, the lines intersecting roughly, my hand shaking with the effort and the pain radiating outward, hot and insistent. Blood dripped onto the cot, staining the blanket, and tears pricked at my eyes, but I finished the point, the knife clattering to the floor as I clutched my arm, breathing through the waves of agony that followed.
For a long moment, nothing happened, just the burn of the fresh cuts, the blood seeping between my fingers, and a wave of regret crashing over me. Stupid, so stupid—what had I expected, some magical fix? But then it started, subtle at first, a warmth blooming under the carved lines, not the stinging heat of injury but something deeper, alive. The rune glowed, faint at the edges, a soft blue light tracing the spiral I'd etched into my skin, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I stared at it, breath caught in my throat, as the glow intensified, spreading outward from the cuts like ink bleeding into water. I watched in awe as the jagged cuts in my skin appeared to be cauterizing themselves with an invisible flame. The pain in my stump didn't vanish entirely, but it receded, dulled to a manageable ache, and a rush of energy followed, subtle but real, color returning to my skin as if my body was drawing strength from somewhere new, steadying itself against the weakness that had pinned me down.
I flexed my remaining hand, watching in stunned silence as the trembling eased, my breaths coming deeper, easier, the fog of exhaustion lifting just enough to make me feel... present, capable. The rune on my arm hummed faintly, a vibration under the skin that felt like an extension of me, not foreignbut integrated, feeding stability back into my veins. It wasn't a miracle—my stump was still there, wrapped and aching, no phantom hand regrowing—but it was something I'd done, on my own, without his guidance or permission. Shock washed over me, a mix of awe and disbelief, my heart pounding as I traced the glowing lines with a trembling finger, feeling the power I'd woken, raw and unrefined, but mine. In that moment, with time running down and danger closing in, I realized I'd tapped into whatever tied me to his world, not as a victim but as someone who could shape it, even if it scared the hell out of me.
25
XAVIAN
The preparations had taken longer than I'd hoped, each rune etched into the crumbling stone of the churchyard wall demanding more focus than I could easily spare in my exhausted state. The thin spot there, where the Shardline wore gossamer-thin, hummed faintly under my touch, responding to the anchors I'd set—crude things, really, crystals scavenged from old mortal trinkets and infused with what power I could muster. It wasn't elegant, not like the crossings I'd known in Velrith, where sigils flowed like water and the veil parted with a whisper. Here, it would be brute force, shoving Virelya through first, letting its bound energy tear open a rift wide enough for us to follow before the Shardline snapped shut like a trap. The blade's power, amplified by the runes I'd prepared, should hold the opening for a handful of seconds, maybe ten if we were lucky. I'd have to carry Morgan through, her weakness leaving no room for her to navigate it alone, and pray the surge didn't unravel her further on the way. My own magic, frayed and muted on this side, couldn't guarantee a clean passage; it would be like forcing a door with a rusted hinge, risking splinters that could wound us both.
If we survived—and that was no certainty—the other side offered slim chances for refuge. Velrith's edges, where the exile had spat me out years ago, were wild and unclaimed, fringes of House territories that no one bothered to patrol closely. There might be a healer's enclave nearby depending on where we cross over to, one of the neutral outposts where rogue practitioners traded services for relics or favors, unbound by the great Houses' politics. I'd crossed paths with one once, a woman named Seryth who mended wounds with threads of essence, her skills sharp enough to perhaps reattach what I'd severed, if the preservation rune held and we reached her before infection set in. Trust was a fragile thing, though; Seryth technically owed me nothing, and word of my return would spread like fire through dry grass. My list of allies was short, painfully so—a few old contacts came to mind, hidden in the borderlands, but reaching them meant evading pursuit long enough to send a message. If no one, at least I would have my full magic back. We could hole up in the ruins, scavenging what we could until Morgan stabilized, but that carried its own risks, the wilds teeming with creatures drawn to fresh crossings. Everything hinged on getting through alive, on her holding together despite the blood loss and shock.
