Page 38 of Crownless Heirs

Sorcha lay bleeding, her consciousness flickering as the world around her blurred into a chaotic mix of motion and sound. Kyron hurried towards the gate, his murmured words weaving a pattern in the air. The wards shimmered and parted at his command. Just as they passed through, a healer turned, their eyes widening in alarm.

“Kyron? What’s going on? Where have you been?” The healer’s gaze fixed on him, taking in his disheveled appearance, the unnatural angle of his arm, and the pain etched on his face. Instinctively, they reached out to heal him, but Kyron recoiled.

“Not me,” he interrupted.

Maelan approached, Sorcha limp in his arms, his hands slick with rivulets of blood that stained his shirt and pooled on the stones below. The marble floor drank the crimson tide, its stark white now streaked in warning.

The healer paled. “Kyron?”

“It’s Lugh’s daughter!” Kyron’s voice was urgent. “She’s dying.”

The healer moved in a flash, lifting Sorcha as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. Then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone. Maelan exhaled, watching the space where Sorcha had just been. Kyron stared at Maelan, arms still outstretched holding her ghost. Maelan’s eyes met Kyron’s, and he began to walk forward. Kyron turned without a word and began walking ahead. Maelan followed until a large building rose before them like a monument, an ornate structure of copper and stone, its roof encrusted with gems that glinted under the pale light. Large frosted windows lined the front, their glass catching the fading glow of the sky. Inside, a woman sat behind a desk, her black hair a striking contrast against her pale skin. She looked up, brilliant blue eyes flickering between them.

She spoke, quietly and calm. “They are in the room down the hall.” The walk down the hall felt infinite as the walls pressed in, suffocating beneath the weight of the floral etchings carved into the stone. Their footsteps fell in sync, the steady rhythm broken only when they halted abruptly before the ornately decorated room ahead. A forest of emerald covered the walls, the scent of alcohol and herbs curling through the air, yet beneath it lingered the bite of copper.

Sorcha lay still upon a bed fit for royalty, her pale skin almost merging with the pristine sheets. Around her, three healers worked with swift precision, their hands alight with magic, their hushed voices weaving an urgent melody. The healer who had greeted them at the gate, an older man with kind yet burdened eyes, turned as they entered. His gaze fixed on Kyron. Without a word, he grasped Kyron’s fractured arm and forcibly reset it. Kyron cried out, his body recoiling from the sudden, intense agony. The healer uttered words Maelan couldn’t decipher, and just like that, Kyron’s arm healed, as if it had never been injured.

Kyron’s breathing was labored. “I’m sorry,” he rasped.

The healer offered no reply, already turning his attention back to Sorcha. Kyron exhaled shakily and gestured to Maelan; they needed to go. Hours drifted by as the sun began its gentle descent. The dying light filtered through the windows, a warm, golden hue, like being suspended within amber, caught in a timeless moment. Kyron and Maelan had drifted in and out of sleep, slumped in plush chairs within what appeared to be a waiting room. Their clothes were stiff, crusted with a rusty stain, the thick scent of blood lingering stubbornly in the air.

A soft touch drew Kyron from his weary stupor. One healer stood beside him. “She’s going to be alright.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Maelan ran a hand over his face and then through his hair, exhaling as if he’d been holding his breath. Kyron nodded once. “Thank you.”

The healer gave a small, knowing nod before turning and disappearing back down the hall. Kyron stood, stretching his body and rolling his shoulders. “I think we should get some fresh air.” Maelan stretched his legs and stood, his body so stiff that it almost hurt to stand up straight.

“Good idea,” he groaned.

Beyond the healing halls, the world seemed too perfect. The sky remained suspended between dawn and dusk, with vibrant hues. The trees were extraordinarily tall, resembling cathedrals, their leaves sparkling like diamonds, unaffected by the elements or the passing of time. Reflecting a world that did not bend to the natural order of life and death, the rivers gleamed in varying shades of green, their waters eerily calm. It was as beautiful as it was suffocating.

Maelan exhaled while stretching his shoulders, trying to ease the tightness that had settled there since leaving the halls. Sorcha would live, and that should have been enough, but it wasn’t.

“You don’t seem relieved.” Kyron’s voice cut through the silence.

He gazed past Maelan towards the distant, unending horizon.

Maelan snipped back. “I am, there’s a lot on my mind, is all. "

Silence hung between them until Kyron finally turned to look at him. His clouded eyes burned.

“You saw what he did,” Kyron said. “He barely tried.”

Maelan didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to picture Vaelric standing over Sorcha, that smirk carved into his face, as if she had never stood a chance. As if none of them had.

“Yeah. I saw,” exasperation colored his reply.

Silence stretched between them once again, the sounds of the city and the rustling of leaves behind them. The trees swayed, but the air remained calm, just a kiss of a breeze.

“This place is wrong,” Maelan muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Kyron raised a brow. “Because it’s peaceful?”

“Because it’s not real,” Maelan gestured vaguely at the landscape, his lips curling. “Nothing here knows pain or sickness; nothing here dies. It just is. Forever.”

Kyron didn’t answer immediately.

Then, softly, almost to himself, “Not forever.”