Page 46

46

LIORA

I feel him fall before I even see it.

One moment, he’s pushing through the agony, fighting to reach me—his voice, his soul, tearing through the grip Seraphiel had on me like it was paper.

The next—he crumples.

“Dante!” My scream rips from my chest as I catch him before he hits the ground. His weight folds into me like a final exhale, his skin too cold, his breathing shallow and ragged. “No, no, no— please. ”

I press my hands to his chest, magic already sparking between my fingers—too wild, too much, but I don’t care.

“Stay with me,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “You stupid, infuriating, loyal bastard , you can’t die. You said you wouldn’t.”

He doesn’t respond.

But he’s still breathing. Barely.

Behind us, Seraphiel growls, the sound something less than human, more than monster.

“You broke my bond,” he spits, voice laced with fury and disbelief. “ He broke it.”

I lay Dante gently on the earth and stand.

My heart’s already broken. And now, so is my mercy.

I rise slowly, like the sky might tremble beneath me. My feet hover just above the dirt, dust swirling around me in soft spirals. The world sharpens—colors too vivid, air too still. The battlefield quiets as if the very fabric of reality knows what’s coming.

My magic thrums beneath my skin—wild and hot and right . Light threads with shadow. Celestial blood hums in harmony with fae fire.

I am the prophecy.

And I’m choosing how it ends.

“You never had a claim on me,” I say softly, power laced through every syllable. “You only ever had fear. And fear isn’t enough anymore.”

Seraphiel sneers, his wings flaring wide, eyes blazing. “You think you can destroy me ?”

“I don’t think,” I say, stepping forward. “ I know. ”

He strikes first.

A spear of molten magic, jagged and black with void-light.

I raise one hand, palm glowing like a dying star, and catch it.

It sizzles. Screams. And dies.

His eyes widen.

I whisper the old words then. Not Fae. Not Celestial.

But both.

Language forged in the bones of stars and the roots of the first forest. Words no one speaks anymore—not because they were forgotten, but because they were forbidden. The words I used in the ritual to pull all my power within me.

“Vel aetha na’sirae... sol’thir vel’en mael.”

The battlefield shivers.

Seraphiel lunges, fury unchecked, mouth twisted in a snarl.

But I am already above him—wreathed in light, cloaked in shadow, every part of me alive and free and mine.

I raise both hands and unleash everything.

The power hits him like judgment.

Raw starlight. Ancient fire. Shadow born of prophecy.

It swallows his scream, drowns his wings, shatters the armor veined with blood-magic. His body fractures in the air—cracks spiderwebbing across his chest, light bursting from within like his own corruption turned on him.

“No—” he chokes. “ You were meant to be mine. ”

“I was never yours,” I whisper. “I was never anyone’s.”

My magic twists around his form, pulsing with the rhythm of the worlds.

Then, I speak the final phrase.

“Valis’na... en’rel.”

Be unmade.

His scream cuts the sky in half as his body erupts into light—devoured, erased, ended .

The rift behind him shudders.

And begins to close.

The silence afterward is unnatural.

No wind. No breath. No whispers.

Just the soft creak of the Veil restitching itself.

The light around me fades, slowly, like a candle burning down to its final inch. My feet touch the ground. My shoulders sag.

I stumble toward him. Toward Dante .

He’s still lying where I left him, too still, too pale.

I drop beside him, gathering him into my arms.

His lashes flutter. His voice, ragged, breaks me.

“Did... we win?”

I laugh. It’s wet, broken, stupid with relief. “Yeah. We did. You dumbass.”

He blinks up at me. “Good. Told you I wasn’t leaving.”

And then he smiles.

I bury my face in his neck and sob.

Not because I’m broken. But because I’m finally whole.

And free.