Around us, the tide is turning. My people have rallied at the service entrance, reinforcements arriving from other positions now that the east wing attack has been revealed as the feint it was. Konstantin's soldiers are good. Underground fighters, just asCeleste predicted. But they're outnumbered now, outmaneuvered.
And I am not showing mercy.
Julian takes down two attackers in rapid succession. Nadia guards the medical wing door with lethal focus. But I'm barely tracking them. My attention keeps snapping back to Celeste. To the way she favors her injured shoulder. To the pallor beneath the blood on her face. To the wound that should be healing faster than it is.
One by one, Konstantin's soldiers fall.
The last attacker, a scarred woman with close-cropped hair and wild eyes, realizes she's alone. She bolts for the breach point. Julian intercepts her three feet from the exit, his blade flashing once, twice. She crumples.
Silence settles like dust after an explosion.
The service entrance looks like a slaughterhouse. Bodies everywhere, some still twitching with the last echoes of undead life. Blood pools on the concrete, runs in rivulets toward the drain in the center of the floor. The walls are splattered with it.
Some of it is hers. The thought won't leave me.
Celeste stands in the middle of the carnage, blade still raised, turning slowly to scan for threats that are no longer there. Her ruined shirt clings to her body, soaked through with blood. The wound on her shoulder has slowed but hasn't closed. Raw flesh visible through the torn fabric.
Another inch to the left.
The thought hits me like a physical blow. Another inch, and the stake would have found her heart. Another inch, and she'd be one of the bodies on the floor.
The rage transmutes into something else. Something that makes my hands shake as I lower my weapon.
"Clear," Julian calls out. "Service entrance secure."
"East wing?" I ask without taking my eyes off her.
"Holding. Konstantin's forces are retreating across all positions."
Retreating. Not defeated. He'll regroup, reassess, and come back stronger.
But that's a problem for later. Right now, the only thing I can focus on is the woman standing ten feet away, slowly lowering her weapon, finally meeting my eyes.
The adrenaline is fading, and in its absence, I can feel every wound I collected during the fighting. The gash across my ribs pulses. Something in my shoulder grinds when I move. Torn muscle, maybe, or a joint knocked out of alignment. Smaller cuts sting across my arms, my face, my hands.
I ignore all of it.
"You're hurt," I say.
She glances down at her shoulder like she's forgotten about it. "It's nothing."
"You're bleeding."
"So are you."
I close the distance between us in three strides. "Medical wing. Now."
She opens her mouth to argue.
"Now, Celeste."
I guide her through the medical wing door.
Inside, it's controlled chaos.
Elena stands at the center of it, clipboard in hand, directing traffic with the calm efficiency of a general commanding troops. "Minor wounds to the left, serious to the right. Anyone who can walk, clear the beds for those who can't. You…" She points at a vampire cradling his arm. "That's a clean break. Set it and move on. We need the space."
The staff move around her, following orders without question.The vampire healers work on the more serious cases, a woman with a stake wound to the abdomen, and others whose injuries I can't immediately identify.
