Page 177 of She Who Devours the Stars

Dyris let me collapse into her arms, neither of us pretending to be fine. She pulled me down into the dirt, and for a minute we just lay there, the raw taste of ozone and violence clinging to our tongues, each pulse of my mythprint feeding straight into hers.

I wasn’t ready to let go, so I didn’t.

We laughed, first—a stupid, hysterical relief-laugh that doubled us over, then hurt so much we started to cry instead. I could feel her tears on my cheek, and mine on hers, and it didn’t matter which was which. There was no more distance, not even the thin skin of old pain.

I kissed her.

It wasn’t graceful. My lips were split, and hers were bleeding, but the moment our mouths met, the world went hot, fast, and completely out of bounds. I’d always thought the post-battle makeout was a cliche, but it was the only thing that made sense. We kissed until there wasn’t a single breath left in either of us, then we stole more from each other, each inhale a crime, each exhale a confession.

I dragged my tongue along her jaw, then bit her ear, hard enough to leave a mark. “You’re insane,” I gasped.

She grinned, eyes wild. “You picked me.”

I didn’t deny it. Instead, I clawed her closer, hips locked to hers, every mythprint nerve in my body screaming for more. We rolled, dirt and sweat and blue-white dust grinding into our skin, until neither of us could remember why we’d ever wanted to be apart.

I wanted her everywhere. In my mouth, in my bones, in the mythic pulses that refused to die down even with the Echo dead and gone.

We didn’t fuck—there wasn’t time, and the world was too new and too raw. But if I’d asked, she’d have done it, right there in the ashes of the old story, right in front of Zevelune.

I kissed her, again and again, until I couldn’t see straight.

She let me.

When I finally pulled away, the world was clearer. The Ruins were still broken, but we were at the center, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like I was about to be written out of my own narrative.

Dyris sat up, tugging me into her lap, arms around my waist. She leaned in, brushed her nose against mine, and whispered, “You won.”

I snorted, choked on a laugh. “Did I?”

She bit my shoulder, not gentle. “You’re alive. That’s the only prize that matters.”

Before I could answer, a shadow crossed the clearing.

Zevelune.

She glided up to the edge, glass of red wine in one hand, the other twirling a strand of hair like she’d just watched the whole thing from a front-row seat and was only now ready to grade our performance.

“Nice form,” she purred. “Good finish. I give it a 9.5, with a bonus for the testicular violence.”

Dyris didn’t bother to move. She just held me tighter, chin on my shoulder, daring Zevelune to take another step.

Zevelune sipped her wine, then glanced at the sky, which was now bleeding new mythvectors at the horizon, raw and black as the heart of a dying star.

She smiled, razor-sharp. “You bought yourself a breather. Not peace. Don’t confuse the two.”

I wanted to snark back, but the mythfire along my spine chose that exact moment to spike, hard, every nerve lighting up with a pressure I’d never felt before. It wasn’t pain. It was hunger.

Something inside me was awake. Not Lioren, I’d made him and his myth my bitch. This was new. Old, maybe, but new to me. A coil of wanting, watching, refusing to be ignored. The hunger… had never been Lioren.

“You’re right,” Zevelune said sadly, answering my thought.

I shivered, and Dyris noticed.

“You okay?” she murmured, low and close.

“No,” I said, honest for once. “But I will be.”

Zevelune gave a small, delighted laugh, like she’d just watched a cat land on its feet after being thrown from a rooftop.