Page 143 of Forged in Fading

“Boden?”

His breathing halted. That voice. Heila.

The heaviness in the woman’s green eyes told him everything he needed to know and everything he didn’t care to know. Alvara was beyond saving. This irreplaceable piece of him, the person that had changed everything—he could do nothing but watch as she disappeared forever.

Heila’s hand grasped Alvara’s wrist and closed her eyes, only for them to fly open a moment later. “Come quickly,” she said in Elvish.

His body responded before his mind or mouth could. Boden followed her to her home, his scattered thoughts flocking to the fact the old woman—with piercing green eyes—could speak perfect Elvish.

Could it be…

The thought dissolved as he laid Alvara on a nearby cot as gently as he could. She couldn’t feel anything anymore, he knew that, but he couldn’t stop himself from interlacing his fingers with hers.

Heila laid her hands on Alvara’s chest. “She is on the brink of no return, but I will do what I can. I am one of the strongest Elan healers, but to save someone with so little life force left…”

Boden stroked his other hand over Alvara’s silver hair. It was silver, despite what she believed, and it was stunning. It always had been. If he could offer his own life, his magic to help mend her⁠—

His dagger.

He unsheathed the damn thing and cursed himself for being the exact kind of wielder the dwarves despised. He offered it to Heila, who had already begun the tenuous process of funneling her healing magic into Alvara.

“Stab me.”

Heila balked, and he forced the hilt into her hand. “The blade is able to drain power from whomever it strikes and transfer it to its wielder.” If the dagger decided to cooperate. If not, Boden would launch it into the sea, dwarves and gods be damned.

“You could fade. The amount I need⁠—”

“Do it.”

It was the only way. The scars Alvara already bore in his stead, the burdens she had lifted from his shoulders, there was no life in which he would allow her to fade without giving every drop of his lifeblood first.

The blade dug into his skin, and hot, red liquid trickled down his arm. Even as his vision dimmed and his strength waned, Boden never once let go of Alvara’s hand.

The darkness seized him, and he prayed to Vitharen, to the gods, to anyone who would listen, that he would not meet her there.

Chapter Fifty-One

Everything ached. Her throat felt like old, cheap parchment, dry and cracked all over.

If this was the afterlife, it was not living up to her expectations.

Her surroundings were nothing more than messy blotches of color. Alvara sat up—or tried to, but the world spun, and she fell back onto the mattress.

Where was she?

There was little to see, only her bed and the unfocused form of someone sleeping in the far corner of the room. Alvara squinted, the details emerging as her vision slowly returned. A pile of clothes lay at the person’s feet, as if whoever it was hadn’t left the room in days. They sat in an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, their tattooed arms crossed against their chest⁠—

Tattoos.

“Boden?” The words barely fought their way out of her ravaged throat. If he was here, then she was…alive?

He stirred and rubbed his eyes. “Damn it, I still hear her.”

“I should hope so.”

Boden’s head snapped up, and he was beside her in a second. His shaking hands reached for hers. “Alvara.”

Dark circles dragged down his face, and blood and gods knew what still clung to his hair and beard, like he hadn’t bathed since the battle. “Did the town run out of soap?”