Page 24 of Broken Fates (Severed Flames #3)

Chapter 24

Xavier

V ale swayed.

Not much. Just enough that if I hadn’t been looking straight at her, I might have missed it.

I inhaled slowly, feeling the charge in the air, the way the very fabric of this place seemed to pull toward Vale like she was its anchor now. She stood at the center of it all, her breaths shallow, her hands trembling at her sides. Power coiled beneath her skin, quiet but endless, rolling off her in steady waves.

But I didn’t miss it. And neither did Idris.

His golden eyes burned as he reached for her, but she took a breath—a sharp inhale like she could force her body to hold, to stay upright.

It didn’t work.

The next second, her knees buckled.

I lunged, catching her before she could hit the ground. Kian was half a second behind me, hands gripping her arms, steadying her between us.

“Vale,” I rasped, my palm pressing against her back, feeling the unsteady rhythm of her breathing. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

She exhaled shakily. “I’m fine.”

I knew better. Magic like that didn’t settle without a cost. Didn’t take root without a price. I’d seen it before—power unraveling a body from the inside out. Too much, too fast, too soon.

Kian’s growl rumbled through his chest. “You’re about as fine as a fucking landslide.”

Vale managed a sharp, humorless breath of a laugh. “That bad?”

Talek shifted somewhere behind me, his voice deadpan. “You look like someone pulled you inside out and then stitched you back together with raw magic.”

I pressed my fingers to her pulse. Too fast. Not dangerously so, but high enough to have my instincts on edge. And she was too warm. The Dreaming had branded itself beneath her skin, and her body was struggling to hold it.

“That’s basically what happened.”

She stiffened slightly. “I don’t have time to be weak.”

“No one said you were weak.” I tilted her face up with my fingers, meeting those too-bright eyes. “But if your body gives out on you mid-fight, we’re fucked.”

A slow, ragged breath shuddered through her. Her chin lifted slightly.

She hated this. Hated feeling fragile. Hated us seeing it.

But she didn’t fight me when I ran my hands over her arms, checking for injuries. Kian pulled one of her hands into his, his thumb brushing over her palm, grounding her with his touch. Idris stayed close, his golden warmth weaving through the bond, steady, solid.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her hand to my chest, her fingers splayed against the bare skin there.

I choose you , she had said. I choose all of you.

I felt it now—the steady hum of the bond between us, even as it trembled under the weight of what she’d just done. What she was still becoming.

Vale inhaled through her nose, steadying herself. “I can’t just sit here and wait to feel better. We have to move.”

A muscle ticked in Kian’s jaw. “Not until we talk about where the fuck we’re going.”

Idris’ golden eyes darted toward the fractures in the Dreaming still shimmering in the distance. “With Arden missing from the vision, it throws up too many red flags. We can’t fight a war on two fronts. We need to kill Zamarra first. She’s the one with the real power.”

There was a tense beat of silence before Kian laughed. It was a sharp unamused bark that would have chilled me to the bone had he not been one of my oldest friends.

“No.” His response wasn’t a discussion. It was an execution. Brutal. Final. Unyielding.

I dragged a hand through my hair, letting out a slow breath. “Arden wasn’t in the vision. We don’t know where he is or what he’s planning.”

Kian’s grip on Vale’s arm tightened. “Then we need to find out.”

Idris’ magic reeled through the bond, molten and simmering. “If we go after Arden first, we risk giving Zamarra more time.”

Talek exhaled, crossing his arms. “And if we go after her first, we give Arden time to do whatever the fuck he’s planning.”

Vale’s voice was quiet. “Nyrah doesn’t have time to waste.”

Kian’s jaw flexed. “Neither does anyone else if Arden is out there scheming.”

Then Idris stiffened—not in response to Kian—to something else. His golden eyes darkened to something unreadable as he took half a step back, almost like something had just hit him in the chest.

And I felt it.

The bond twisted—something breaking. Something wrong.

Then the Dreaming ripped apart.

The air cracked open, silver light slashing through reality like a wound forcing itself into existence. Magic seared through the space in front of us, curling, flickering—showing us exactly what we needed to see.

Tarrasca was burning.

The castle gates had been torn apart, the stone spattered red. The banners had been ripped down, bodies littered the steps, and through the smoke?—

Arden.

His golden eyes gleamed when he cut through a soldier as if he were nothing. Magic burst from his fingertips, latching onto another, wrenching the life from their body.

And he was smiling.

A sharp clang of steel rang through the air as Freya’s blade crashed against his.

She was holding her own. Even outnumbered, her movements were sharp, calculated—not desperate, just fucking furious. Every strike hit hard, meant to break, meant to kill.

And for the first time, Arden didn’t look amused.

His smirk slipped, and his eyes sparked with rage.

She snarled something I couldn’t hear—but I saw his lips pull back in a sneer.

He lashed out. A wave of magic slammed into her midsection, sending her crashing into a stone pillar. Then the vision collapsed.

The rift snapped shut so hard the ground shuddered beneath our feet.

Idris sucked in a breath. His chest heaved, power flowing from him in waves full of rage, raw and seething.

Talek was the first to speak, his voice grim. “Well. That’s fucking settled, then.”

Vale’s hands balled into fists, and the light beneath her skin burned hot—too bright.

No one spoke. They didn’t have to. They all knew exactly what needed to be done.

Vale inhaled, slow and steady. The glow beneath her skin burned hotter, her magic seething, stretching, demanding. The Dreaming quaked around her, an extension of herself, no longer just something she walked through—but something she could command.

She lifted her hand, and the air shivered.

“This place brought us here,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the storm raging beneath her skin. “It can take us where we need to go.”

Kian’s brows pulled together. “Vale?—”

But it was already happening.

The Dreaming answered her.

A crack split through reality, light slashing through the air, curling at the edges like a wound trying to heal but held open by her will alone. The world pulsed around them, the very fabric of this place bending beneath Vale’s grip.

Wind roared through the fracture, pulling, shifting, and opening.

The world twisted. Folded.

For half a breath, everything was weightless. The Dreaming twisted around us, stretching reality into ribbons of silver and black—until it snapped.

We were falling.

No, not falling—being thrown.

The Dreaming spit us out like it was done with us, hurling us straight into the throne room. Hard stone met my knees, the force of our landing rattling my bones. Behind me, Kian let out a sharp curse as he steadied himself, and Idris slammed a palm into the marble to keep from falling.

But Vale—Vale didn’t even stumble.

She landed like she belonged here.

Like the Dreaming had placed her exactly where it needed her to be.

The air was thick with blood and magic. Smoke billowed from collapsed pillars, the remnants of a battle still raging beyond the shattered doors. The metallic bite of iron clashed with the acrid sting of burning spells.

And at the center of it all—Freya and Arden.

Freya’s blade met Arden’s in a shower of sparks, her fangs bared, copper hair tangled with blood. She wasn’t losing. She was pushing him back. But even as she struck again, faster, sharper, her magic crackling around her like a second skin, Arden smirked.

That slow, infuriating smile.

“Finally,” he breathed, golden eyes flicking toward us.

Freya didn’t hesitate. She drove forward, striking again—her sword a blur of steel and fury.

The bond throbbed. Idris and Kian were already moving, stepping into formation beside me. Talek’s magic bent the air, shifting in a way that made my instincts prickle. My own power coiled, ready to be unleashed.

But Vale?

She hadn’t moved. She just stood there. Her gaze locked on Arden.

And then there was a slow, crawling shift in the air, like the Dreaming itself was watching through her eyes. Magic curled off her in waves, but it wasn’t just magic anymore. It was something else.

Something vast. Something ancient. Something that made even Arden’s smirk falter. A flash of something passed through his golden eyes. Not fear—not yet. But uncertainty.

Because he’d expected us. But he hadn’t expected her.

And the Dreaming?

The Dreaming was hungry.

The room shrank around Arden. Not physically. But in the way that a predator’s gaze made the world tighten around its prey.

Freya’s sword scraped against his, her breath labored but steady. Blood slicked the marble beneath them, pooling in jagged streaks, and still, she stood. Still, she fought.

She didn’t give him an inch, didn’t give him room to breathe, let alone time for a monologue. But she did give him a smile.

“All these years, and you're still living in Idris’ shadow,” she taunted, her sword sliding against his, the clanging of steel on steel ringing in my ears. “No wonder you’re so desperate to stand in his place. Too bad you’ll never fill it.”

Arden sneered. “The throne should’ve been mine. I just had to clear a few obstacles.” His golden eyes flicked toward us. Toward Idris.

And that was his first mistake.

The temperature in the room dropped as ice crackled around me, rage on Idris’ behalf calling my magic forth. The air stopped moving as the very castle seemed to hold its breath.

Oh, so slowly, Idris stepped forward.

He didn’t unsheathe his sword. Didn’t lift his hands. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he said—quiet, controlled, and razor-sharp, “You betrayed your own blood. For what?”

Arden’s smirk twitched. Just barely.

Idris didn’t stop. He took another step, power weaving in and around him in a slow, lethal burn. “A woman that never wanted you and a crown you’ll never wear?” The words landed like a verdict. His golden eyes gleamed. “You ripped me in half and still you weren’t strong enough to take it then. You sure as fuck aren’t strong enough now.”

The fucker’s smirk vanished, and Arden’s grip on his sword tightened.

And then he lashed out. "And yet, for two hundred years, you were nothing more than a broken toy," he spat, golden eyes burning. "You still are."

Idris didn’t falter. "And for two hundred years, you were nothing more than a shovel, digging Zamarra out of the prison she made herself. How does it feel to be nothing more than a pawn, brother?"

Vale moved as the Dreaming vibrated around her.

The castle hummed. The very air shifted. The banners on the walls trembled, the torches flickered, and the room bent.

Arden felt it, and for the first time, he hesitated. “You’re wrong. You’re all wrong.” He beat the hilt of his sword against his chest. “I am the rightful king. Zamarra is my queen, and you are nothing. You’re nothing .”

When Freya saw the flicker of uncertainty, she struck. Hard .

Arden barely caught her blade in time. Metal shrieked against metal, their magic sparking in the space between them. But the balance had shifted.

And he knew it.

“Now you’re just stalling,” Kian muttered, rolling his shoulders, magic coursing between his fingers. “We doing this, or what?”

Freya lunged again, teeth bared. And the fight began.

Arden snarled, twisting as Freya pressed him harder, her blade a blur of steel and fury. He’d expected us to come, but he hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected Vale. Hadn’t expected Idris standing whole before him.

Magic cracked through the air as their swords met, the impact sending sharp echoes throughout the throne room. The golden banners were torn, the marble slick with blood. The battle beyond the shattered doors still raged, but this fight—this moment—was the only one that mattered.

Freya struck high, forcing Arden back, his stance shifting as irritation flashed across his face. He caught her blade, pushing her off, and finally looked up.

Looked at Idris.

The smirk returned. That same fucking smirk.

"You came all this way to die for me, brother?" Arden breathed, his eyes gleaming. "I'm touched."

Idris didn’t smile. He walked forward, slow and deliberate, his power swelling around him like a gathering storm. "You should be afraid."

Arden scoffed, shaking out his wrist like this was just another match between them. Like he hadn’t shattered the world with his betrayal. "You’ve always been dramatic. Still waiting for someone to save you?" His golden eyes darted to Vale. "Or do you actually think you can win this time?"

Vale exhaled, her magic humming at the edges of reality, twisting, watching. The Dreaming curled toward her, hungry and waiting.

"You should be more worried about yourself," she said in a soft but sharp voice. "Because this time, we’re not playing your game."

Arden barely had time to frown before Idris was on him. Their blades met, sparks flying.

And then Vale moved as the Dreaming exploded.

The very air shuddered as she pulled the magic through her veins, twisting reality as if the castle itself wanted this fight over. The throne room tilted—no, not physically, but around Arden. The world was shifting, centering on him.

And he felt it. For the first time, he looked unsure.

Freya was still locked in combat, their blades flashing between bursts of golden magic, but the air was already shifting. Pulling. Rearranging.

And Arden felt it.

His foot slid back. His shoulders tightened. He swung for Freya’s middle, but he was slower now.

The Dreaming had caught him.

Vale’s eyes burned, the golden glow beneath her skin pulsing in time with the fractures around them. Reality itself was curving inward, the Dreaming reaching toward him like fingers through a veil.

Arden snarled, ripping his blade away, his golden eyes cutting toward her.

"This isn't your fight!" he spat, his voice sharp and desperate.

Vale tilted her head, watching. The Dreaming shuddered at her fingertips, waiting for her command. "You made it my fight when you killed my parents," she murmured. “When you starved me, cut me, branded me. When you tied me to a stake to burn. When you went after my sister. When you attacked my mates.”

Vale’s gaze never once wavered. “After all you’ve done, and you think I’ll let you keep breathing? I didn’t let your son live a single second after he put his hands on what was mine. Why would you think my judgment for your crimes would be any kinder?”

Her words settled, and Arden's hands clenched.

Then she moved.

Magic ripped through the room.

Not just magic. Not just power. The Dreaming itself.

It latched onto him.

A pull at first. An invisible thread tightening around his limbs, wrapping, binding—until it became something else. Something alive.

Arden staggered. His free hand went to his chest as his breath hitched, his body jerking as if something inside him had twisted wrong.

The glow beneath his skin—his stolen magic—flared.

Then dimmed.

"What—" He let out a sharp breath. "What did you do?"

Vale moved closer. She raised her hand—just one—and the air obeyed. Tendrils of the Dreaming tightened, sinking into his skin, latching onto something beneath his flesh.

His magic.

His soul.

He choked on his next breath. His sword slipped an inch in his grasp.

"You spent your whole life trying to take what wasn't yours," Vale said softly. "A throne. A kingdom. Power."

The Dreaming tightened. Arden’s spine arched as it dug in, snaking through his veins, weaving into him like a second set of bones.

"And yet," Vale murmured, watching him unravel, "you never learned how to hold on to anything."

The floor cracked beneath him. He stumbled, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.

Vale had him trapped, and for the first time, he looked afraid.

His golden eyes snapped to his brother.

A plea—not with words, but in the way a dying man searched for mercy.

And Idris? He only watched.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the war beyond the shattered doors, the distant clash of steel.

Then Vale turned and met Idris’ gaze.

She didn’t have to ask. He already knew—we all did. The bond throbbed with the silent question, but all I could think about were the scars on her back. The heretic brand burned into her skin. The stab wound in her middle that had taken nearly all of me to heal. Her parents.

Idris exhaled, power rising through the air like a final breath. "Do it."

Vale lifted her chin and let the Dreaming hum beneath her skin.

And for just a second—just one—I saw it. The hesitation. The part of Vale that still held space for mercy.

I knew that part of her. Loved that part of her.

But not now. Not for this.

Not for him.

Her fingers trembled, light blooming across her flesh, waiting. And for a breath, I thought— fuck, she’s actually considering it.

And for that moment, Arden saw it.

His golden eyes latched onto hers, breath ragged, body rigid as the Dreaming held him tight. His hands twitched, the last dregs of stolen power curling at his fingertips like dying embers. He had no fight left, no last move, no way out.

Then her gaze flicked down—to Freya’s blood on the marble.

To Idris, whole again, but still standing in the wreckage of what Arden had done.

To the bastard himself, struggling, trapped in the web of his own making.

And still—he tried. His lips parted, a snarl half-formed, maybe a plea, maybe one final insult, but Vale just tilted her head.

Not with pity. Not with regret. With something sharper, something colder.

Then, in a voice as steady as the storm inside her, she murmured, “Say hi to your son for me.”

Arden barely had time to breathe before the Dreaming collapsed inward.

Light detonated through the room, a supernova of pure, unyielding power. The air warped, bent, screamed as the magic inside Arden twisted against itself. He gasped—choked—his body jerking, fighting against the inevitable.

He reached for something, for anything, but his fingers closed on nothing. His golden eyes, once burning with arrogance, went wide.

Fear. Real, desperate, helpless fear.

And then—he was gone.

Not a body. Not a corpse. Nothing left to burn or bury. The Dreaming devoured him, shredded him into pieces too small for existence to remember. The last echoes of his stolen magic unraveled into the ether, consumed by the force he could never control.

Silence swallowed the throne room.

The Dreaming settled, the air rippling as if exhaling after a long, vicious hunt. The last shreds of Arden’s stolen magic flickered, whirling into the ether, vanishing like he’d never been here at all.

The blood on the floor told another tale.

Standing in the center of it all, Vale was still as a statue. Shoulders squared, breathing steady—I could still see the way her hands trembled at her sides. The way the light beneath her skin hadn’t dimmed.

This wasn’t over.

Kian exhaled, rolling his shoulders, his fingers flexing like he needed to hit something. Someone. He cast a glance at Idris. “Well?”

Idris’ golden eyes still burned. Still blazed. But his magic was already shifting—turning away from where Arden had fallen, toward something worse.

Zamarra.

He felt her before we did. His body stiffened. His breath came sharp, clipped. And then the castle trembled.

A pulse of raw, ancient power crashed through the walls, the stone groaning under the force of it. The banners that had survived Arden’s attack ripped from the rafters. The torches guttered out.

A voice like cracked glass and dying embers slithered through the throne room, soft as breath, cold as death.

“You took my toy.”

Vale’s head snapped up.

That voice. That magic. That pull.

Zamarra knew Arden was gone.

A fracture split through the stone at our feet, thin at first, then growing. Spreading, the air darkened, the very fabric of the Dreaming twisting again—but this time, it wasn’t Vale doing the tearing.

This time, something was coming for us.

Talek exhaled sharply, shifting into a ready stance. “So much for a breather.”

Kian let out a slow, lethal breath, flexing his fingers as fire blazed through them. “Fucking finally.”

Idris drew his sword.

Vale turned toward the encroaching darkness. The glow beneath her skin brightened, her magic coiling, shifting. Preparing.

The Dreaming shivered. The castle groaned, stone grinding against stone as magic thickened in the air, pressing, pulling— showing .

Not here. Not anymore.

Wind cut across the flat stone over the sheer drop. The falls that had once run clear swirled with scarlet blood.

Kian’s magic flared against my skin as my power rippled in protest.

But it was too late. The rift yawned wide.

And the Dreaming swallowed us whole.