Or something like running—stumbling, limping, dragging ourselves across scorched ground. Ahead, I can see Thane and Stellan already tearing toward the center of the blast, shadows against the silver ash.
My Sight tries to open again, but all I get is static—white, broken, useless.
The Council is scattered. Some fled—I catch glimpses of figures disappearing into the treeline. Others have fallen, motionless in the wreckage. A few stand frozen, staring at the place where Bree knelt like they’ve forgotten how to move.
The thing she was fighting—gone. Vanished.
Gray is dragging himself across the ground to my right—still in human form, one leg bent wrong, but moving. Pulling himself toward her with his hands, his elbows, whatever still works.
Zira stands over a Council enforcer, blood on her hands, eyes glowing. She doesn’t look at us. Doesn’t move. Just breathes.
Then I see Seth.
He’s crumpled against the sanctuary wall, thirty feet from where Bree knelt. The Void energy that flickered around him is gone—no black threads, no silver lacing. But I think I see his chest move. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
My chest seizes.
Is he—
I can’t stop. Can’t go to him. Bree first. Breefirst.
We keep running.
The veins beneath our feet are dimming. I watch it happen—the silver light bleeding out of them step by step, fading from molten bright to dull gray. Like a heartbeat slowing. Like something vital draining away.
“The veins,” Wes gasps. “They’re going out.”
“I see it.”
We reach her.
Thane is already there, on his knees in the dirt. Stellan beside him. Stellan’s hand trembles once—barely noticeable, gone in an instant—but I see it.
Neither of them is touching her. They’re hovering—hands raised, frozen.
I skid to a stop. Drop to my knees across from them.
Bree is collapsed forward, face in the dirt. Hair covering her features. Hands still buried in the earth, but limp now. The silver mist that poured from her is gone.
She’s not moving.
The air where she fell feels wrong—thin, hollow, like the world forgot how to breathe without her.
“Is she—” The question catches in my throat.
Thane’s jaw works. His eyes are fixed on her, silver bleeding to gray. His hands shake. I’ve never seen Thane’s hands shake.
“I don’t know.” The words come out broken, raw—nothing like the voice I’ve heard command armies and silence Council members. “I don’t—”
He doesn’t finish.
None of us touch her.
We just kneel there in the ash, in the silence, in the space where her magic used to be.
Waiting.
Hoping.
