Worse than in Dunneshead, worse than during the Wind Mages’ ambush. He wholly lost himself to Space—mind, body, and soul.
“Oh, Evie.” He lunged forward to pull her into his arms. The jarring surge of power went through him again, but he needed to hold her, to apologize to her, to know she was safe despite his horrible failure. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Shh,” Evylin whispered soothingly. She ran her hand through his hair, holding him close. “It’s all right. We made it out.”
Deckard refused to be absolved. “Forgive me,” he pleaded, face pressed into her neck. “I lost control, and—”
“It’s all right,” she repeated, though he could feel the tension and pain in her heart. “We made it out.”
For several minutes, they sat there, comforted by the physical assurance of their safety. He laced his fingers through her wavy hair. Her arms cradled him tenderly. His muscles relaxed as she nuzzled deeper into him. He wanted to stay wrapped up in her forever, on their bed, in their house, under the calming morning sunshine.
But Evylin pulled away, her mood still somber. Deckard sat back, studying her face even as she took his hands in hers. “What is it?” he asked.
Her brown eyes were locked on their entwined fingers. He could feel her reluctance as she took a steadying breath, and worry wrapped around his heart. “Evie,” he pressed.
“We, uh...” She trailed off, adjusting his moonstone ring absentmindedly. “After you fell unconscious, things grew difficult.”
Deckard wet his lips, preparing for what she was about to reveal.
“Thom,” she began, and his heart stuttered, “fought valiantly and made sure we got out, but he was gravely injured in the process. He would have died if it weren’t for Brea and Ilain.”
Deckard didn’t know whether to feel relief or guilt. His brother was alive. But he’d almost died because of Deckard’s failure.
At Evylin’s lingering solemnity, Deckard realized there was more. He tightened his grip on her. “What else?” he asked.
Evylin scooted closer again, her side pressing into his legs. She met his gaze, impressing him with her next words. “It isn’t your fault,” she insisted.
“What isn’t?”
“You have to understand; you couldn’t have stopped it.”
“Evylin—”
“Tell me you understand,” she demanded.
Deckard’s brow pinched so tightly it ached. “What happened?” he asked in a determined but hushed tone.
A cloud of grief, worry, and compassion swelled between them. “We lost Auden,” she whispered.
Deckard struggled to take in the revelation. Nothing about it made sense. Without seeing their friends, without the ability to visually comprehend the truth, he couldn’t rectify it in his mind. Auden wasn’t gone. He couldn’t be. She’d merely meant that he’d been taken, stolen away by Blount and his men. They would rescue him, and all would be well.
Swallowing past the dryness in his throat, Deckard asked, “Where did they take him?”
Evylin’s expression clouded with sorrow. “Jonn . . .”
Deckard shook his head, the awful truth dawning on him, but he refused to accept it. She didn’t mean that Auden was dead. Deckard’s mistake, his inability to control himself, hadn’t gotten the man killed. “It was Blount, wasn’t it?” he asked. “He took him, and now—”
“Jonn,” she repeated his name again but said nothing more.
Deckard’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s gone?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Dead?”
Her gaze averted apologetically.
Guilt and despair slammed into Deckard’s gut. He’d gotten Auden killed. “How, uh—” He fought back his tears, forcing himself to accept the responsibility for his actions. “How are Ilain and Vayden?”
