I didn’t think.
I reached for the shadows.
They answered instantly—surging forward like a tidal wave from my hands. They lashed through the air and yanked Thorne backward, tearing him off his feet and flinging him through the air like a puppet with cut strings.
He hit the ground hard and skidded across the stone, his sword flying from his grip.
Phoenix collapsed to his knees, gasping.
I ran to him, cupping his face, kissing him hard.
“Elle…” he rasped, “Don’t—don’t let him…”
“I’m not,” I whispered. “I’ve got him. Grab Caelen and get to those damn ships.”
Thorne pushed himself up. His face was a storm—rage, betrayal, something deeper.
“Come on, then,” I called. “If you want me so badly, boss man—come and get me.”
He moved. Fast.
I ran. I was always good at escaping.
He chased. Just like we planned.
We tore down the path through the trees, branches slashing past, the cliff edge looming ahead where the mist swallowed the world below.
The trail narrowed. I felt Slade waiting—just as we planned—hidden in the shadows, ready.
He crouched behind the jagged arch of a crumbling sentry post, molten steel coiled around his arms like serpents—alive with heat, coiled with tension.
I crossed the threshold. Thorne did too.
Slade moved. Fast. Precise.
The steel snapped forward, twisting, locking—coiling around Thorne’s wrists, ankles, chest. The bindings cinched tight. Brutal. Final.
He hit the ground, snarling. But bound.
We had him. Gods, we had him.
I ran to Slade and stood beside him. He didn’t look at me—his eyes were locked on Thorne, sharp with focus—but his hand found the small of my back, anchoring me like it was instinct.
His other hand clenched, and the metal obeyed—tightening with a screech that sent dust spiralling from the broken stone.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low, urgent.
Blood ran from a cut on his jaw, and his clothes were torn from the fight—but he stood like he always did - solid, unflinching, mine.
“I’m fine,” I whispered, my breath catching.
His eyes flicked to mine for just a moment, and something passed between us—grief, fury, love—all layered beneath the restraint he wore like armour.
From the ground, Thorne laughed.
Soulless. Cold. Brittle.
“Nice trick,” he said. “Your plan?” He looked to Slade.
