“Well, aren’t those impressive? Is this a pissing contest?”
He summons his wings, copper and gold burst from his back, feathers bright and fierce.
I leap into the storm, tearing through the sky, wind howling in my ears and the rain parting like a curtain. Reon follows, but he can’t hold pace. I burn forward in black plumes, a tempest unleashed.
“Amara!” My voice cuts through the night, desperate and raw. Silence answers.
Every spire, every tower, empty. I close my eyes and breathe deep, sorting through scent and magic, through blood-memory and bond. For her pulse. For the place my teeth broke skin. For the mark that binds us. There. A spark. A pull. My eyes fly open, fixed on a flash of green flame curling over the eastern balcony stone.
I dive hard.
The balcony is littered with the charred remains of demons, embers still glowing faintly in the rain.
Only Amara could have left this trail. She must be close. Why does she not call to me?
My boots hit the stone as I weave through broken bodies. The doors ahead are shattered, splintered, scorched black from fire’s kiss.
I slow, and an icy knot tightens in my gut and when I turn the corner and my world shatters.
Amara. My light, my fury, my heart.
Bloodied, broken, her skin blistered and torn, her hair burned away in ragged patches. Great wounds gape where flesh should be. More blood pools around her than flows within her veins and the cruelest cut of all, she is not healing.
I gulp, the sharp sting like shattered glass scraping down my throat as I drop to one knee beside her.
“Amara,” I whisper, voice raw and brittle, as if saying her name too loud might shatter what little remains of her. But there is no answer.
My hands tremble as they reach for her, hesitating before brushing against her cheek. Her skin is hot, almost burning, melting beneath my touch.
“Amara,” I breathe again, louder this time, desperate.
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I swallow them down, letting raw fury rise in their place. My jaw tightens until it aches, my skin flushes with heat. I cradle her fragile body in my arms.
“Amara! No!”
Before I can say more, the panel of the secret door crashes open, slamming against the wall. The Golden Son stumbles through, breathless, eyes wild with urgency.
In one smooth motion, I summon Death Singer, blade humming with deadly intent, raising it toward him. He freezes, barely a step from impalement.
“Where is she?” I demand, voice sharp as the steel at his throat. “Where is our…”
Then Solena steps out from behind him. My daughter is nestled in her arms, unharmed. Safe. The sight should loosen the knot in my chest, should wash me clean of the fear choking me. But relief cannot drown the agony.
My gaze drags back to Amara. To the ruin of her flesh. To the rune on her neck, shredded and almost unrecognizable.
“She’s not healing,” I murmur, drawing her closer. My arms lock around her, pulling her upright so I am closer to her mouth. “My love. You need to heal yourself. Amara.”
Nothing. No words. No movement nevertheless, I refuse to believe she is anything other than alive. She is not gone. I will not accept that. Not until the sky bleeds and the seas turn to dust. When day becomes night and the end is the beginning. When every law of above and below collapses in on itself. Until then, she breathes. She is mine and if she is not living…
Heavy steps echo across the stone. What remains of the door splinters apart when Reon forces his way through. His eyes go wide with horror as he nears.
“Rook. Is she…”
“She just needs to heal,” I roar, my voice booming until the walls quake.
Reon inclines his head, a cautious hand half-raised. “Of course, Rook.”
I do not realize I am rocking her. Holding her close though the contact tears at her charred skin. The Golden Son staggers to the wall, sliding down until his shoulders slump forward, chin tucked.
