Page 45

Kieran

The moment Calliope disappeared into the dark behind her throne, Dahlia and I ran for Silas.

He was crumpled at the foot of the dais like discarded wreckage, blood soaked into the collar of his shirt, sigils still faintly glowing beneath his skin. His breath came in ragged gasps, eyes fluttering open as we dropped to our knees beside him.

“You came,” he croaked, half a smirk curling his swollen lip. “Was worried I’d bleed out without an audience.”

“Try not to die before I get the satisfaction of punching you,” I muttered, checking his wounds. Still bleeding, but the blood was clotting. His remaining eye was bloodshot and blackened.

Dahlia’s hands trembled as she brushed blood-matted hair from his face. “You look like shit.”

“Good,” he rasped. “Would hate to be pretty for Calliope.”

Footsteps echoed behind us. The Elder. Still robed in those ancient runes, still emanating the kind of power that felt older than time itself.

“He must be taken to a separate holding,” the Elder said. “He is a prisoner until the Rite is complete. Should you fail, he is hers again. Should you win… he is free.”

Dahlia’s hand clenched around Silas’s. “You’re not dying in her dungeon.”

“Wouldn’t be my first dungeon,” he winked.

Two silent Order members appeared behind the Elder and lifted Silas with practiced hands. He didn’t fight them. Just gave us a look—equal parts fear and trust—as they carried him away into the shadows.

The Elder turned to us. “Follow me.”

We obeyed without a word.

He led us through torchlit halls, past carvings that pulsed faintly as we passed. Eventually, he stopped at a wooden door inlaid with silver sigils.

Inside was… not a prison.

It was simple, yes—but far from cruel. A sturdy bed with clean linens. A wide-backed chair facing a lit fireplace. A small table with fresh water and a basin. A single door near the bed, a bathroom, I assumed. Warmth clung to the walls.

“You are not prisoners,” the Elder said. “Not while the Bloodrite binds her. You are guests. Watched, yes—but respected. We will feed you, the bathroom is through that door, but you may not leave.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Dahlia moved toward the fire, her shoulders heavy with exhaustion, but her spine still straight. Still ready.

“Why?” she asked. “Why follow her at all? Why let her rise to this?”

The Elder didn’t answer right away. He moved to stand by the door, fingers resting lightly on the frame as if steadying himself.

“She was not always what she is now,” he said at last. “She returned from death after the failed Rite with ash in her soul and prophecy on her lips. The Order was broken. Leaderless. Many were dead. The rest… desperate.”

He looked at Dahlia then, and something in his gaze softened—regret, maybe.

“She promised us rebirth. Power. A new age of magic. Some followed out of faith. Others out of fear. And some—” he paused, voice hardening, “—because they didn’t see another path.”

“She’s going to destroy everything,” I said quietly. “She thinks she’s ascending.”

“She believes she is owed it,” the Elder replied. “She gave everything to the Rite. Her body. Her coven. Her heart.”

I felt Dahlia’s hand brush mine.

“She’ll lose,” Dahlia said, calm and cold. “And I’ll make sure she remembers what she took before she dies.”

The Elder studied her for a moment longer, then nodded once.

“I hope you do,” he whispered. And then he left, the door closing behind him with the finality of a vow.

I turned to Dahlia.

She stood in front of the fire, shadows dancing across her face, Mercy still sheathed across her back.

And in that moment, she looked like something ancient herself.

Like fire, about to meet a storm.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet, now that the adrenaline had burned out of our veins. The Bloodrite had been set. Calliope’s trap was exposed. Silas was alive—barely—and locked away under guard until this was over.

And Dahlia…

She was unraveling right in front of me.

She sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, her knuckles white against the blanket, eyes unfocused as the fire cracked and spat in the hearth. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. But I saw it in the set of her jaw, in the way her shoulders curled inward like a collapsing star.

“Flower,” I said gently.

She flinched.

Just slightly. Just enough to make my chest ache.

“I’m okay,” she whispered.

Liar.

I crossed the room and crouched in front of her, catching her hands in mine. They were ice cold. Still trembling. Her skin was smudged with soot and dried blood, her braid half-undone and tangled with ash.

“You’ve been holding everyone else up,” I murmured. “Let me hold you.”

Her eyes finally met mine.

“I can’t—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“You don’t have to know,” I said. “You just have to let go.”

I stood and scooped her up before she could argue, her limbs feather-light in my arms despite everything. She didn’t fight me. Her head dropped to my shoulder with a shuddering breath.

The bathing chamber was warm, steam curling up from the still-filled tub. Some mercy from the Elder, perhaps. Or fate finally offering something soft.

I set her down on the bench and knelt to unlace her boots, peeling them away from swollen feet. Her hands moved slowly, tugging at her ruined shirt with clumsy fingers. I helped her, silent, careful. This wasn’t about desire. It was about reverence.

When she was bare, I eased her into the water. She gasped at the heat, sinking slowly, like her body didn’t know how to relax anymore.

She rested her head back against the stone edge, eyes fluttering shut.

“I’ve got you,” I said, sitting on the floor beside the tub. I soaked a cloth and began to clean the grime from her skin. Her shoulders. Her throat. Her scraped palms.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. She just let me do it.

When the water cooled, I rose and fetched a thick towel from the rack. She blinked blearily as I lifted her again, wrapping her tight in warmth.

Back in the bedroom, I laid her on the bed. She was half-asleep before her head hit the pillow.

I brushed her damp hair away from her face. She looked young like this. Raw. Like the fury had been carved from her, leaving nothing but soft edges and too much pain.

“Rest,” I whispered. “We’ll face her in two days. But tonight… you’re safe.”

She didn’t answer. Just breathed slow and deep.

I sat beside her, watching the fire.

And somewhere, behind the heat of my shadows and the ache in my chest, I made a quiet promise:

If Calliope wanted war, she was going to get it.

But Dahlia?

She wouldn’t stand alone.