But the Herald hesitates.
Not from mercy. Not from doubt. Its head swivels, as if listening to a voice only it can hear—the Arbiter, distant in its stronghold, issuing new commands.
“RECALL,” it says. “REASSESSMENT REQUIRED.”
It steps back. Once. Twice. The blade lowers but doesn’t vanish.
“THE ERROR AND THE WITCH ARE MORE EFFECTIVE COMBINED. SEPARATION IS REQUIRED BEFORE TERMINATION.”
“Try it.” Zephyra’s voice is steel. “See how well that works out for you.”
“THE ARBITER WILL ADAPT. THE ARBITER ALWAYS ADAPTS.”
It fades. Not teleportation—dissolution, its form losing coherence and dispersing into crystalline mist that hangs in the air for a moment before settling like glittering snow.
Gone. But not destroyed. Not defeated. Recalled for reassessment.
We’re still alive.
The realization hits like a second blow. We shouldn’t be. The Herald could have killed us—should have killed us. But it chose retreat instead. The Arbiter, watching through its proxy, decided we were more valuable as a lesson than as corpses.
For now.
Zephyra drops to her knees beside me. Her hands find the wound across my stomach, pressing down, and the pain whites out my awareness for a heartbeat. Pressure. Heat from her palms against the cold of my failing body.
“Don’t move. Don’t you dare die on me.” Her voice carries an edge I haven’t heard—not cold calculation, but raw urgency.
“Not planning on it.”
“The Herald will be back. And the Arbiter now knows we work together. That changes its approach—it’ll try to separate us before it strikes again.”
“I know.”
“So—defensible ground. Somewhere smaller, harder to maneuver in. Figure out how to?—”
“Zephyra.”
She stops. Looks at me. Her silver eyes are wide, her face pale, her hands covered in my blood. Strands of dark hair have escaped her braid, hanging around features drawn tight with fear—not for herself, but for me.
Mine.The recognition hits like a blade between ribs.Mine, and she protected me.
“Thank you,” I manage. “For stepping in front of me.”
“Don’t thank me for being stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid.” I cover her bloodied fingers with mine, pressing them harder against the wound she’s trying to hold closed. The pressure hurts. The contact… doesn’t. “It was what I’d do for you.”
She stares at me. Something shifts in her expression—the cold strategist giving way for a moment to the woman underneath. The woman who chose to stand between a dragon and death, knowing what it might cost her.
“We need to move.” Her voice drops lower, fingers curling around mine, not releasing the pressure on my wound but adjusting to incorporate the contact. “Can you walk?”
“I can do whatever I need to do.” I push myself up, ignoring the scream of protesting muscles and torn flesh. The world spins. Steadies. Blood still flows from half a dozen wounds, but slower now—my dragon healing what it can, conserving what remains. “Let’s find higher ground before that thing comes back.”
She helps me stand. Her shoulder under my arm, taking more of my weight than she should be able to. We lean on each other—literal now, not just tactical. Her body against mine, supporting, grounding.
Partners.
The word resonates through me with satisfaction.
