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Luna’s magic preceded her, the gentle wave too weak. Spent. The smell of her blood hit next when her arms wrapped around his neck, and a new rage threatened to choke him. Only her fangs sinking into him eased it.

Barely.

Relief didn’t come until her sparkling incandescence slammed into him and she felt like herself again. Brand wanted to look at her, see for himself that she was alright, but his task was unfinished. He was only just keeping control of Thodelebor’s border as it was.

Luna broke free on a gasp. “We have to go,” she rasped. “Now.”

“Not…finished,” Brand ground out.

He was so bloody close, the fragmented islands no longer in danger of slipping into the Ghostbor’s depths. Just a little more…

“Brand—”

“She’s coming!” Fern shrieked. “Get him the fuck out of here, Lunara.”

She. Okthana.

“I need more time!”

“We don’t have time, twig dick!”

Almost there…

“Time…” Luna whispered.

“Shit. There.” Thunder clapped, rain hitting his back. “Wall! Now! She’s after Brand!”

His command over the stone sputtered, panic threatening. The thought of being in her clutches again, being her prisoner…

“Isn’t this what we wanted?” Hedda asked.

“Sure, until we found out that she’s fucking immortal!”

The bond leapt between them and Luna swore, magic swelling. “Hands!”

“Wait—”

Fingers and fur landed against Brand, and the oily ether swallowed them whole.

Blood had poured and stopped so repeatedly over the months that his eyes were mostly glued shut. The crusted helm of his hair poked and prodded at emaciated shoulders, his robe so tattered that it did nothing to protect him anymore. Weeping shite, he wasn’t even sure how he was standing, starved and weak as he was.

It never got easier, being shackled and helpless, taunted endlessly by the creature who’d captured him—utterly shameful, to one such as he. They’d lured him with promises. Given him hope. Sworn they could help her. Could bring her back to him.

They’d fucking lied.

Now, everyone was suffering for his blindness where Meliora was concerned.

His mate was gone. He just wished he’d fucking accepted it sooner.

He looked up at her, blurry through the veil of his tangled, scabby lashes, and choked back a wash of tears. Aye, she was gone, but she wasn’t fucking dead.

It was far, far worse than that.

—Still her. Still our beauty⁠—

Nay, laddie. It really isn’t.

Movement caught his attention, more sound than sight. It didn’t matter that he could barely see—he smelled the rotting arsehole as he sidled up.