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Chi mora mor, e chi camba cambe.
Those who die die, and those who live live.
Alessa bent her head to Dante’s unmoving chest, heedless of the grime and blood and scarabeo ichor caked to his shirt.
Saving the world was such a hollow victory.
Eyes clenched, she fought to lock in every memory she had of him. The way his dark eyes smiled, even when his mouth didn’t. How he’d watched her like he desperately wanted to stop but couldn’t tear his eyes away. How safe and cherished she’d felt in his arms. And how she loved it when he’d called her—
“Luce mia.”
Alessa jerked up.
Dante’s haunted eyes met hers.
She blinked, but the illusion didn’t fade. The skin on his face was drawn tight with pain, but he was alive.
“Dante.” She touched his cheek, and he gasped.
Yanking her hand back, Alessa stumbled to her feet and sprinted to the corridor, screaming for help.
She hung back as medics rushed into the temple. She’d made it through a war without being sick, but sourness clawed up her throat as Dante cried out, his teeth bared in a rictus of agony.
He was alive. Alive. The word became a chant, then a prayer.
The medics poked, prodded, and bandaged for hours before loading Dante onto a gurney for transport to the triage center in the Cittadella, but he was alive.
He nearly bled out on the way there, but by the time the sun rose—or set, she honestly wasn’t sure—they said he was stable.
Stable.
She’d never forget the sounds, or the smells, of soldiers hurt and dying. Her battle would go down in history as one of the shortest, but casualties were high, and the wounded were too lost to pain to care about their place in history.
Alessa tried to sit with Dante, but he kept opening his eyes, muttering about shadows that spoke and memories of futures, and he seemed so distressed at her lack of understanding that when a nurse suggested she leave so he could rest, she did.
Dante wasn’t the only one suffering. Alessa walked the rows and rows of wounded soldiers, pausing to thank them, fetching water and broth and bandages. Summoning medics when it seemed worth trying to save them, listening to their final words when it wasn’t.
She’d begun to think she’d forgotten how to pray, but she prayed with hundreds, and she meant every word.
Protect them, Dea, and see them safely home. Be it to their mortal lives or their eternal rest, carry them in your gentle grasp and light their way with love.
She’d done her duty, and they had done theirs.
Despite the shocked faces, Alessa made herself useful in any small way she could as the hours dragged on.
She was dabbing a soldier’s forehead with a wet cloth when a small voice called out to her.
“Someone needs you in the critical care section,” said a nurse who didn’t seem old enough for the responsibility.
Heart in her throat, Alessa hurried back to the area reserved for the most serious cases. Dante’s injuries had beensoterrible, but she’d seen him heal before…
“Adrick?” she said, startled by the sight of a curly blond head beside Dante’s cot.
Adrick was there, tending the sick. He was an apothecary assistant. He was her brother. Of course he’d come.
Adrick stood. “I brought the best pain treatments we have, but he won’t take them until he talks to you.”
Dante’s eyes were open, but he was staring up at the sky, not at her, face pale, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his side.
