I feel her presence in every cell of my body. Feel her will reinforcing mine, her strength shoring up my failing channels. She’s taken as much of the backlash as her body can handle—and then some. She’s burning. Dying. Sacrificing herself to give me a chance at survival.
No. Stop. Let me?—
Shut up. This is what we wanted. What we decided.
The last of the power flows through us. The ritual completes. And the Vale goes dark.
Silence.
Finally, the Crimson Vale is silent. Truly silent. No hum of blood-wards. No pulse of accumulated magic. No constant background thrum of harvested life-force.
Just… nothing.
I’m on my knees. Don’t remember falling. My hands are pressed against the earth—dead earth now, drained of everything that made it special. My scars have stopped glowing. Stopped bleeding. Stopped doing anything except existing as evidence of what I once was.
“Imara.”
Her name comes out as a croak. I don’t have the strength to shout. Barely have the strength to breathe.
“Imara.”
I turn my head. The motion costs more than it should.
She’s lying beside me. Face-down in the ash that used to be the Red Fields. Her robes are charred. Her hair is singed. Her skin is pale—too pale, white as bone beneath the grime.
No. No no no?—
I crawl to her. Every movement agony. Every inch of ground an eternity. My hands find her shoulder, turn her over, pull her into my lap.
Her eyes are closed. Her scars have faded from blazing white to dull gray. She’s not breathing.
“Imara.” I grip her shoulders. Shake her. “Wake up. You don’t get to die. We won. We’re free. You don’t get to die now.”
Nothing.
I feel for a pulse. Find the faintest flutter—barely there, barely alive, but present. She’s not dead. Not yet. The heart I’ve felt beating against my chest through nights of shared warmth, through moments of stolen intimacy—it persists. Refuses to stop. Refuses to give in.
The resonance between us pulses weakly. Her presence is still there, buried deep beneath the damage. Fighting to survive the way she’s always fought. The same stubborn defiance that made her look at a monster and see a man. The same iron will that carried her through ten years of sabotage and secrets.
Stay with me. Stay with me. Please.
No response. But the pulse continues. The flutter persists.
She’s alive. Barely. For now.
Behind us, the children emerge from their hiding places at the perimeter. Dena’s voice rises above the others—calling for her aunt, her voice cracking with fear and hope.
The Vale is dead. The Matron is ash. The clan that created us has finally fallen.
And Imara lies in my arms, hovering on the edge of oblivion.
I hold her tight. Press my lips to her forehead. Feel the warmth that still lingers in her skin.
“Stay with me,” I whisper. “Please. I can’t do this without you.”
The resonance flickers. Steadies. Holds.
She’s still fighting.
