Page 37

I t’s shredding me apart, layer by layer.

Glittering golden plumes are ripped from me, spiralling upward. Chiron’s spell pulls—harder, deeper.

I shouldn’t scream for him. Shouldn’t bring him here.

But . . . it hurts. It hurts so much.

The memories we made—our dromveske, our stolen moments—they’re all that hold me together. They tether me, keep me from splintering into nothing.

I see him—his dangling braids as he leans close, the glitter in his eye reflecting fireflies, the weight of my name as he tugs me onto his lap, the sweep of his thumb over an escaped tear.

His barely-there kiss.

My head tips back, voice shattering.

The doors do not just break.

They explode.

Shards of splintered wood punch into the luminarium like daggers, and a storm surges in .

Winds roar, howling through the chamber; violet oak leaves rip from their branches, scattering. The air crackles—charged, boiling —

A whip of blinding energy cracks through the chamber, striking Chiron like thunder. The force of it rips him from his feet, hurling him back into the violet oak with a sickening crack.

Redcloaks stagger. One fumbles for his weapon.

Through the chaos, through the storm—

My king comes.

My head is heavy, my vision blurring, but I keep my eyes on him.

A flash of dark robes, wind roaring in his wake. Magic crackles from him, whips of pure light: he isn’t summoning a tempest. He is the tempest.

And the tempest is coming for me.

My heart pounds, and with each beat my lovelight pulses brighter.

Quin.

To be so relieved, and so devastated at once.

He came for me.

But what have I brought him into?

My mouth forms his name but everything aches. My voice is lost. I fall—

Quin catches me.

His cloak billows and a domed shield slams around us. His magic is as commanding and defiant as he is. He clutches me desperately, hold almost strangling. Quin— who could always control his expression, who could fight calmly through anything—

His face is wretched.

His arms shake as he holds me closer. His hands press over my chest—as if trying to keep me here, keep me whole.

His magic surges—he tries to steer my lovelight back inside me.

But he can’t.

It’s only tethered to me by a thin, fragile thread.

A tremor rolls through me—the pain surges again. My muscles scream. I can’t seem to move them voluntarily. They’re too heavy, too exhausted, too agonised.

Quin yanks the flutette from his throat and presses it to my lips.

Relief.

It floods through me.

The magic within the flutette that he’s hoarded, sparingly used—all that remains of my magic—he gives it back.

It curls deep—everywhere Chiron’s spell touched, it fills. Soothes. Heals.

His trembling fingers push my hair back, touch achingly gentle. His voice breaks with it.

“I didn’t know we’d both face him,” he murmurs.

His hands tighten. A vow.

“But with you by my side... it’ll be enough.”

The regent coughs violently—and it turns into a laugh. A raw, brittle thing that echoes around the luminarium .

Spells hammer against Quin’s shield. Not a single crack forms. Not even a tremor.

But the regent isn’t looking at them.

His gaze locks onto us. And for the first time, his face contorts—not with rage, but with memory. With something far more dangerous. Perhaps our closeness reminds him of Liandros. Of what he lost...

“You think love makes you strong,” he sneers, voice curdling, bitter— hurt . “But love... love can be ripped away.”

Quin’s voice rings out like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“You think power makes you strong. But power can also be ripped away.”

The regent’s lips twitch. The air shudders. “I will not let everything be taken from me.”

Quin doesn’t hesitate. His dome explodes outward. “Neither will I!”

The force hurls the redcloaks back like puppets, slamming them against the walls. Another whip of light lances through the luminarium, striking the regent—flipping him through the air. He crashes to the ground before the glowing, leafless violet oak.

Quin’s hands clench in the air, magic blazing.

Chiron, staggering upright, latches onto Akilah. Scrambles away.

Even through the haze of pain, I see it. The flicker of something in him. A choice.

At least this .

At least he’s helping her.

Quin’s arms tighten around me—then, carefully, he lowers me to the ground. A shielding spell weaves around me, settling over my skin like the one used when I was sick.

My lovelight still drifts in the air, shimmering—a fragile, beautiful dance in the middle of this destruction.

“Wait, Quin—”

But he’s already rising.

Magic crackles in his palms, the very air thickening with the intent to kill.

Before him, the regent forces himself upright. His breath comes ragged. Uneven. But his hands—

His hands slam into the earth.

The floor jolts. A deep, unnatural rumble.

A fissure splits the marble beneath me.

Quin’s voice is low, lethal. “You were behind those earthshakes.”

The regent wrenches his glowing hands from the cracking floor—

And the violet oak rises.

Not just lifts—is ripped from the earth, its ancient roots tearing free.

Higher. Higher. The whole tree is suspended.

And then—

The regent slams his hands into the tree.

All the centuries of linea power it has absorbed, the very magic of kings long dead, condenses—racing toward the heart of the wood .

A pulse shudders through the luminarium.

A pulse that doesn’t fade.

It forges.

It solidifies.

And then the regent draws a sword from the violet oak.

Not just a weapon. A living force.

A single, devastating arc of its blade sends Quin and me flying.

I don’t even feel the impact.

Just the shock of Quin’s magic shattering.

He barely manages another shield—a desperate one. Weak.

The regent laughs.

“You feel it now, don’t you?” His voice curls with satisfaction. “What it feels like to be pitiful.”

Quin doesn’t answer. But I see the strain in his arms, the wild flicker of magic trying to weave back together.

It’s not enough.

Not against this.

I reach for him. Above me. Somewhere close, but not close enough.

“Quin—”

The regent swings the violet oak sword again.

A ripple of power yanks us forward.

I gasp—the world lurches, and we are dragged toward him, helpless.

“I lured you here for a reason, Constantinos.”

Quin digs his heels into the cracked ground, but the pull is too strong .

Behind the regent, the remains of the violet oak finally topple.

The weight of it shakes the luminarium. Branches crumble to ash.

The tree has fallen.

My chest tightens, my world lurches—

Quin will be next.

“Please,” I beg the regent. “I’ll do anything. I’ll cure you.”

I try to raise my arm to Quin. Try to reach for him. But my muscles cave. My limbs are useless. I cannot move.

Quin’s shield flickers—weakens.

Then—shatters.

Quin plummets.

The regent swings his sword.

“NO!”

The violet oak blade strikes first.

Quin gasps—a sound sharper than any blade. Blood erupts from his stomach. From his mouth.

His body suspends in air—held there by the regent’s magic. For a single, agonising moment, he’s still.

Then—

The spell releases.

He drops.

A lifeless, crumpling fall. A thud against marble. Red spilling onto white.

He doesn’t move.

Why isn’t he moving ?

I claw, scramble, heave— but the regent’s spell snaps tight around me.

“QUIN!”

My voice fractures. The floor tilts. My vision blurs. I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

The silence is unbearable. No struggle. No ragged breath. No single twitch.

I twist, fight, try to pull free, but the spell crushes me down.

“Chiron.” The regent’s voice has me seething. I’ve never truly hated before, but I do now. I’m a healer, but I wish I’d never stepped forward out of pity. I wish I’d killed.

Chiron steps forward. Bows over Quin. Presses his fingers to his pulse.

Once.

Twice.

He pauses. Then casts a spell. Once. Twice.

He doesn’t speak.

Too quiet.

Far too quiet.

The regent’s voice sharpens. “Well?”

Chiron rises. Bows. And speaks.

“Dead.”

Dead.

The word slams into me.

My chest hollows. My breath doesn’t come. My heartbeat struggles too.

“No.” No, no, no, no—

Something inside me cracks .

My lovelight pulses violently. My chest burns. My limbs shake.

I lurch against the regent’s constricting spell, thrashing. My knuckles slam against the marble.

Quin is—

Chiron steps toward me. His boots clomp against the floor. His face is hard, distant. “That’s right,” he says. His voice is flat. Unfeeling. Absolute. “He is dead.”

But his eyes . . .

They stay on mine. Too long. Too steady.

And suddenly—

My body remembers.

I was dead once, too.

And Chiron had given the same proclamation about me.

My stomach clenches. The realisation hits so hard, I nearly choke on it.

Chiron lied to save me.

And now—

He is lying to save him.

A single, sharp breath stabs through my lungs.

I know what to do.

I wail. A long, raw sound. I thrash against the marble. My voice twists with agony.

“YOU KILLED HIM!”

The words tear from me. My body convulses, shakes, as if it’s rejecting the very truth of it.

“I said I’d cure you—” My arm lunges forward, muscles burning against the spell’s hold. My fingers claw for Quin— let me go, let me —

The regent laughs.

His spell dissolves.

The moment I’m free, I lunge.

I collapse over Quin, fingers scrambling for him. My hands find warm arms, still but not cold. I press down, feel for a pulse—

A faint beat, barely there.

A sob rips from my throat.

“No, no, no—” His name catches in my chest. My breath heaves. My fingers clamp on tighter, digging into his skin, as if I can pull him back from the abyss.

My arm wraps around him. A lover’s tragic, breaking embrace. My forehead presses against his. A tear falls, rolls down his cheek.

“Wake up. . . You can’t be—”

I reach blindly, shaking, fumbling. My hands dive into my healing bag, searching—something, anything.

I spill the contents onto the floor.

Powders, loose herbs—useless things. The small, bright vial Megaera gave me glints among them.