Page 78 of Fey Sovereignty

Dimly I hear Selwyn talking about iron and bullets and not knowing what to do. I see the moment Llywelyn hears his fate. He doesn’t look sad or scared. He looks relieved. Tired. Weary. Resigned. Ready to go.

My heart slams against my ribcage. Shock floods my veins. This cannot be happening. I thought his brothers would save him. The fey can hang stars on the ceiling. They can walk through portals and invade worlds. They can do anything.

“You can’t die!” I splutter in outrage.

He smiles weakly. The faintest movement at the corner of his too-pale lips.

“Why not?” he rasps.

A broken, awful sound fills the air. A wounded animal in distress. My lungs reverberate with it. I’m making it. The wail is coming from me. I didn’t even know I could make a noise like this.

Llywelyn is dying in my arms.

I’m never going to get the chance to fully find out who he is under all the layers of everything he pretends to be.

I will not grow old with him.

There will never be a cottage in the woods.

“Because I love you!” I weep.

All my denial has shattered under the overwhelming weight of my anguish. I sob as my love for him floods me, and I feel it in all its terrible glory for the very first time.

Llywelyn’s smile grows. He beams. His face and eyes light up like the sun god he is. It is dazzling. It is blinding. It is the first time I’ve ever seen him happy.

“I love you too,” he breathes out on a soft exhale.

He doesn’t breathe again.

The light in his eyes fades. Like the setting of the sun. All that was golden is now dark. Llywelyn is growing cold in my arms. He is far too still. His unseeing eyes are grey and not gold.

“Llywelyn?” I croak. “Sweetheart? Loo-loo?”

He doesn’t respond.

He can’t be gone.

A terrible, tormented howl pours out of me. My chest hurts so much I can’t breathe. I think my heart has stopped beating. My blood is congealing in my veins, turning as heavy as lead.

“Fuck this!” snaps Dyfri. “Selwyn, put up a concealment spell.”

Something shimmers over us. A bubble around the four of us. Cutting out the outside world.

Dyfri takes a deep breath. His eyes close.

I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t care. I can feel my soul breaking, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. All I can do is cry and make sounds like a tortured animal.

Everything is agony. Blinding and all-consuming. Tearing me apart. Destroying the very fabric of my being.

Suddenly, my arms move. Llywelyn jerks. Warmth rushes back into him. He coughs and splutters, and then his eyes open.

My lungs suck in a serrated breath. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. An icy shiver races down my spine.

He was dead. I know he was. I know death. I’ve seen enough of it. Caused enough of it. Llywelyn was dead. I was not mistaken.

I stare at Dyfri just as Selwyn does. There are no words. No thoughts. Only incomprehension.

“Necromancy?” hisses Selwyn. His voice full of shock, horror and awe.