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Magpie had been their ace in the hole, and without him, they would lose the upper hand. Weapons alone wouldn’t level the playing field—with their scales and teeth and claws, dragons were designed for combat.
Humans, not so much.
To win this thing, they needed insight into the enemy’s movements, and now the only way they’d get it was to ask Bertram for help—and in doing so, jeopardize his life.
Again.
Again.
He had already given so much—already risked so much—and always because Sorin was never enough.
Never strong enough.
Never brave enough.
Never good enough.
The only reason he’d ever accomplished anything was because he’d had Bertram at his side, encouraging him, doting on him, and putting his life on the line so Sorin could fight for justice.
He couldn’t ask him to do it again.
“Sorin?” Sandrine asked apprehensively.
But Sorin couldn’t reply. The pressure inside of him had become too much, and the agony of it ripped through him—and not just in his head. It was everywhere. In his chest, in his stomach, in his guts. In the way his teeth clicked as they ground together, and in the way his muscles locked as they clenched and strained.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Bertram standing dejectedly before a scowling council. Mouths moved, words were spoken, and from out of nowhere, another agent appeared and knocked Bertram to his knees. There was a flash of claws and a gush of crimson, and Bertram, gurgling, collapsed.
Blood spilled out around him like a dark lake, and Sorin felt him drowning, gasping, rattling, sucking air into lungs that would never breathe again.
It’s your fault, said a voice in Sorin’s head. He’s dead because of you.
“Sorin?” Sandrine asked, alarmed.
Sorin barely heard her over the sound of his own screams.
Sandrine grabbed him—he felt the sturdiness of her hands—but he couldn’t tell what she was doing to him, or why. The real world had gone black. All he saw was Bertram dying, his body going limp as the light drained from his eyes.
It wasn’t supposed to have ended like this.
They had lived apart for hundreds of years out of fear, worried that despite their love, Sorin’s magic would bleed Bertram to death, but it had all been for nothing—he would die bleeding anyway, butchered by his own kind. Leaving Sorin broken, the flawed half of a perfect whole that would never be whole again.
Sorin’s horrifying vision of the future continued, the light going out of Bertram’s eyes as he lay still and silent on the floor. Sorin’s body buckled as he felt their bond sever.
It was agony.
Loneliness.
A gaping, vast hole where something sacred had once been.
And in that emptiness, he felt the darkness of death—cold, creeping tendrils of it reaching out for him, wrapping around him, pulling him in.
Bertram is here, the void whispered. Be with him. Let go.
But Sorin couldn’t do anything.
Couldn’t move, couldn’t help, couldn’t breathe.
He was frozen, paralyzed with grief.
