Page 26

B lackness fractures. A rush of violet light engulfs me, blinding, weightless—then the world yanks me downward. Leaves whip past, large and luminous, the sacred wood twisting around me in a dizzying spiral until— crack.

Pain lances through my ribs. My breath stutters. I hang, hooked over a low branch, the sacred bark pressing into my stomach.

I groan, pressing a shaking hand to the wood. The violet oak.

The knowledge settles deep.

I’m inside Quin’s dromveske.

A shudder wracks me, my spirit-form trembling at the edges, too light, too unsteady. How did I fall in here? Is this truly the dromveske or is it some dying dream?

If I am dying, at least I’ll pass surrounded by his moments. At least Quin will be here. At least I won’t die alone.

The thought presses against me, heavier than my own body, heavier than the sacred air around me .

I reach for the branch, but my grip slips through it as if my hands aren’t entirely solid. A sharp inhale, then—I plummet.

The ground rushes up to meet me.

I brace for impact, but when my back slams against the violet roots, I feel nothing.

That’s when I know.

The words. The words I need to say.

I push upright, shaking. If my spirit form is this weak, does that mean I’m dying? Is the body I left behind only hanging on by a thread?

I can’t die yet.

I push to my feet, swallowing against the ache in my limbs. The dromveske glows under moonlight, a vast spiral of runed arches curling around the oak, each one a door into Quin’s past.

I’ve stepped through all of them.

All but one: the arch that has always remained just beyond reach, the one that hums with something more than memory, something alive, something waiting. The one that shivers against my touch whenever I try—and fail—to open it.

I stumble forwards, my breath tight in my throat.

The shimmer of river-pearl catches my eye—finally, there it is.

I surge forward—only to lurch to a stop.

Something is wrong.

The glow is cracked.

A door that has been impossible for me to open .

Broken. Smashed.

A place I vowed to enter—is now laid bare before me.

I reach for the broken wood, my fingers brushing the splintered edge. The weight of understanding sinks deep into my chest. Nicostratus did this.

He is the only other person who has ever stepped into this dromveske.

Had he smashed the door to enter? Or on his way out—after seeing what lay inside?

A lump rises in my throat, thick and heavy. My pulse hammers against my ribs as I take a trembling step forward.

The glittering mist parts. The memory unfolds around me.

The courtyard at the ruined fortress.

The night is thick with battle cries. Spear-wielding crusaders swarm the stone, purple cloaks whipping, their blades and the nails around them glinting in the moonlight.

Across the courtyard, Quin is struggling, an exhausted figure barely holding on. One arm is braced around his weakened brother, the other locked around me—my past self, Chaos-me.

I know what happens next .

But knowing does not soften the horror.

I race forward, weaving through the crusaders’ angry forms, hurtling toward Quin just as he tenses his body and unleashes the surge of magic that will save us.

Twister-force winds whip around us.

I leap—slamming onto Quin’s back—

And the spears come flying.

I brace myself. I know which one will hit Chaos.

And I watch as Chaos sees it too and moves instinctively, twisting to shield Quin with his own body.

I hear the thunk.

The force of the spear rips through Chaos’s back, cleaving through muscle and bone.

Quin’s roar of fury shakes the courtyard.

Magic hurls the crusaders away in an explosion of raw power. Then, we’re soaring, Quin’s arms locked around me and his unconscious brother, wind screaming in our ears as he carries us over the mountain to the gardens outside Hinsard—the nearest safe place, where he can find help.

The landing is rough.

The moon hangs low. The scent of earth and herbs thickens the air.

Quin staggers under our weight, his breaths ragged, blood soaking through his fingers where he holds my wound closed.

The innkeeper answers the furious pounding on his door, bleary-eyed.

Quin doesn’t ask for a healer. He demands one.

“The nearest . . .it’ll take a few hours— ”

“Now!” Quin orders.

Aklos and aklas hurry, pulling Nicostratus away, but Quin doesn’t let Chaos go.

His arms stay locked around him, fingers pressed tight against his wound as if sheer willpower will hold him together.

The memory shifts.

I see myself—Chaos-me, past-me—sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward Quin.

Quin’s hands are slick with Chaos’s blood.

His voice is low, urgent, breaking apart at the edges. “How many times do I have to say it?”

His grip on Chaos tightens. “Your life is mine.”

The words echo through me, slipping past shivers and memory, carving into my bones.

I follow beside him, shadowing the past, breathing in hitched gasps as the truth pulls tighter and tighter around me.

I clutch Quin’s sleeve, desperate, trembling. Trembling from the truth of this moment and from the flickering of my spirit. Is time running out? Is this the last of Quin’s masks?

I can’t grip Quin anymore. My voice is still working though. “The vitalian will never make it in time. Chaos is slipping away. How did you save him? How did you save me?”

The answer lives in my heart.

I know it already.

But knowing does not prepare me for what comes next .

Quin’s face hardens. His breath is shallow. His grip tightens.

His voice rumbles low, raw, shaking with fury and something else, something deeper.

“I do not accept this.”

His fingertips press harder against my wound, as if sheer force can keep me from slipping away. His other hand pushes back my damp, blood-matted hair, his touch at once gentle and devastatingly possessive.

Then, he bends down, his breath ghosting against my ear, his voice a savage command.

“Survive.”

His lips press against Chaos’s temple.

And the world erupts.

A burst of light, brilliant and blinding, floods the room.

The force shatters the stillness, flinging open the windows, rattling the walls, sending dust and candle flames flickering wildly.

Magic. His magic.

No—his lovelight.

It is not fire, not wind, not rage or destruction, but warmth. A golden, shimmering force that swells and dances around us, tender and fierce all at once.

I feel it.

I feel Quin’s lovelight against my skin, ticklish shivers running through my fading form, curling into my chest like a held breath.

For a single, aching moment, my body in the dromveske solidifies .

I gasp, dragging in air like I’m waking from drowning.

His one and only lovelight in his entire life—

And he gifted it, without hesitation, to Chaos.

To me.

I watch, my heart pounding, as his light sinks into Chaos’s broken body, wrapping around muscle, bone, and torn flesh.

Quin doesn’t just let his lovelight heal me.

He steers it, his hands trembling as he guides the magic toward my wound, weaving it through the damage, knitting me back together with every flickering pulse of golden warmth.

The room glows with it.

With him.

With all that he is, all that he has never given to anyone before.

And in moments, Chaos breathes again.

I breathe again.

Quin’s lovelight saved me.

The then-me, and the now-me.

Something inside me shifts. A warmth spreads through my core, unfurling, anchoring me to this place. To him. My spirit is strengthening, as though his gift has not only healed my wounds but ignited something greater inside me.

I am not fading. I am not lost.

I hold on to that realisation, to Quin.

Memory-Quin turns Chaos toward him. Their hands clasp, his grip firm, unshakable .

His eyes, fierce and certain, cut through time itself—and land directly on me.

“We will save my people together.”

My breath catches.

It’s not just a command to Chaos.

It’s a command to me.

I need to hold on.

His people are sick. Dying.

He needs me.

I can’t let the fever, the plague, take me.

I can’t lose the fight now.

Quin’s voice pulses through me like an anchor. I must finish what I started.

I bow low.

Then, fists clenched, I turn and force my body through the forest.

Every step, my spirit flickers, my form distorting, breaking apart, trying to drag me under.

No.

Anything I consume in here will strengthen me.

I drag myself up the mountain, chewing bitter herbs, ignoring the burn of my weakening limbs.

I press forward, the fortress ruins looming ahead.

I stagger through the door.

The violet oak shudders before me.

The ground rumbles beneath my feet—

Something—or someone—is shaking the dromveske itself .

I throw myself at the exit rune, chest heaving, heart pounding.

The dromveske cracks apart around me, a rush of violet light collapsing inward.

I fling myself into the darkness.

Wake, Cael. You have his people to help.

You are his man.