Page 13

THIRTEEN

SERAPHINE

S eraphine’s bones felt hollow.

Like something ancient and sharp had been carved from her ribs and carried off into the swamp.

The blood key throbbed faintly in the pouch strapped to her belt, a pulsing warmth that didn’t comfort—it warned.

It was alive, in the way a dying fire was still dangerous.

The color had shifted since she picked it up.

No longer just dark red, but veined through with pearlescent threads of white and violet.

Magic. Memory. Pain.

She staggered slightly over a moss-covered root and cursed under her breath. The world tilted just a little. Her legs didn’t feel like her own.

Cassian noticed.

“You’re wobbling,” he said, not bothering to look at her as he walked ahead through the narrowing path.

“I’m walking,” she shot back, voice tight.

“On half a soul.”

Seraphine rolled her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Cassian slowed anyway. Let her catch up without saying so. His steps were easy, steady, like the ritual hadn’t taken something from him, too.

Maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe it was ignorance. Or maybe gods help her. It was just that he was made of sturdier stuff.

Either way, she was too tired to pretend she didn’t notice.

She watched the way his back moved under the weight of his gear, the quiet efficiency of his gait. There was a confidence in him—not born of arrogance, but survival. That kind of calm wasn’t taught. It was earned.

In a moment of weakness—just one—she let herself be quietly impressed.

He bled for you today, she thought. He gave up pieces you didn’t ask for.

He didn’t flinch.

They pressed on, the marsh growing narrower, darker.

The trees pressed in like sentinels. Cassian cleared the path ahead with a blade glowing faintly with residual Stormfire.

Behind them, Lira muttered war chants under her breath, Brann clung to a bottle of spirit salt, and Alek was, as always, half-shadow.

They’d make it to the shard’s resting place by dusk, Malrik had said.

If Malrik was right.

She hated that those odds were the best they had.

Cassian glanced back again. “You sure you don’t want to sit down for five minutes? You’re swaying.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You look like a pissed-off corpse that forgot how to fall over.”

She glared. “Why are you still talking?”

“Because if you keel over and die on me, I’m not dragging your royal ass through mud.”

“I’d haunt you.”

He smirked. “You already do.”

Seraphine exhaled sharply.

Damn him. He made her want to smile when she didn’t have the energy to stand.

They passed a row of drowned statues—former guardians, she guessed. Once proud sentries now covered in moss and hollow-eyed from centuries of staring into rot. One of them had a cracked shield still clenched in a skeletal grip. Another’s face had been scratched off entirely.

“I hate this place,” Brann whispered behind her.

Seraphine couldn’t blame him.

The air was thick with memory. It clung to her skin, heavy as guilt.

By the time the sun had begun its descent behind the jagged black trees, the terrain changed.

A slope of broken stone opened to a natural basin shrouded in gray mist. The ground had long since sunken into a shallow pit, where half-submerged ruins glimmered with faint, otherworldly blue light.

The temple.

Cassian stopped beside her, eyes narrowing. “That it?”

“It’s what’s left of it.”

“It’s also glowing.”

“Magic wards.”

“Friendly?”

She gave him a look.

“Right,” he said. “Stupid question.”

They descended the slope together, cautious. Lira signaled for Alek to scout the perimeter while Brann began tracing defensive glyphs on the surrounding stones. Cassian stayed close—too close, by her usual standards. But tonight… she didn’t mind it.

Her breath came shallow. Her arms ached. Even her thoughts felt fragmented.

He saw it again.

She hated that he saw it.

“You’re still bleeding,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to the place where the hem of her glove was damp.

“It’ll stop.”

“You sure about that?”

“No.”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his voice softened. “You’re not weak for being spent, Seraphine.”

“I’m not spent,” she whispered.

But she was. And he knew it.

She reached for her belt pouch, fingers brushing the edge of the blood key.

Cassian touched her wrist—lightly, carefully.

“You gave too much.”

She looked at him. And in the fading light, with swamp fog curling around their boots and the temple ruins breathing ancient magic, she let herself be still.

Just for a moment.