“Soreia—”
“I’m not running.” She doesn’t turn around. “You’re going to get up. We’re going to fight this thing until it stops moving. And if we die, we die with our hands around its throat.”
I get up.
Every wound screams protest. What should be healing sputters and fails and restarts, fighting to rebuild what the creature destroyed. The pain is distant now—shock setting in, blood loss clouding everything in gray at the edges.
But I get up.
Because she told me to. Because she’s standing between me and death, and that’s wrong. That’s backward. That’s not how this works.
I protect her. Not the other way around.
The creature lunges. Soreia’s magic catches it mid-strike—a desperate anchor working that makes the thing stumble, its momentum disrupted by power it wasn’t designed to counter.
I hit it while it’s off-balance. Claws finding the seams between monster pieces, fire pouring into the gaps. The creaturescreams and reforms and screams again as I tear it apart faster than it can rebuild.
The mathematics of this fight haven’t changed—the creature learns, and I’m running out of variations to teach it.
But we’re still fighting.
And as long as we’re fighting, she’s alive.
That’s all that matters.
The abomination catchesSoreia with a backhand strike.
The sound she makes when she hits the ice will stay with me forever. A short, sharp cry that cuts off too quickly. Her body crumples against the canyon wall, and she doesn’t get up.
No.
I’m moving before I think. The creature stands between us, and I go through it—not around, not past, through. My claws open its torso from hip to shoulder. My fire burns what my claws miss. I don’t care about strategy or adaptation or the fight I’m losing.
I only care about reaching her.
The creature grabs me from behind. Multiple limbs wrapping around my torso, my arms, my throat. Squeezing. Tearing. It’s finally committed to killing me—recognizing that I’ve abandoned defense, that I’ve left myself vulnerable in my desperation to reach her.
I don’t care.
I tear myself free. Leave pieces of my flesh in the creature’s grip. Cross the remaining distance to where Soreia lies crumpled against the ice.
She’s breathing. Shallow. Unsteady. But breathing.
Blood runs from a gash across her temple. Her skin is too pale. Her magic flickers weakly around her hands—instinctive response, her power trying to protect her even while she’s unconscious.
“Soreia.”
Her eyes flutter open. Unfocused. Lost.
“Can you stand?”
She tries. Fails. Her legs won’t support her weight.
The creature is recovering behind me. Its body is reconstructing. I feel the displacement of air as it rebuilds itself into a new configuration.
I have seconds. Maybe less.
I gather her into my arms. Hold her against my ruined body—my broken ribs, my shredded back, my blood mixing with hers on the frozen ground.
