Page 45 of The Syndicate’s Shadow Heiress (Branche de Lune Syndicate #1)

THE BLOOD FIELD

Kali’s Emotional State: Fractured but rising. Her heart is still ash from Silas’s loss, but the bond magic, the horses, and her circle are pulling her soul back from the brink. She’s not whole, but she’s dangerous again.

T

he wind in the pasture shifted, Bentley’s scream shattered the stillness first. Then came the hooves, thunderous, sacred. All ten of her horses tore through the fog like living shadows. Not wild, not panicked, called. One by one, they surrounded Kali’s crumpled form, breath steaming in the cold.

She was still unconscious.

Solen was already kneeling beside her, one hand hovering over her chest, his jaw clenched in focus. Shadow thread danced from his palm to her ribcage, trying to mend what the flare and the astral plane had scorched.

Irina stood behind him, pistol drawn, eyes scanning the tree line.

“She’s breathing,” Solen muttered. “But it’s jagged. Like something’s still tearing at her from the inside.”

“She needs grounding,” Thorne’s voice cut in. He appeared from the shimmer of a teleport rune, dropping to one knee at her side. “She called for me. Her magic did, too.”

Irina glanced at him, jaw tight. “Then help her. ”

Without another word, Thorne placed his hand on Kali’s thigh, not possessive, not sexual. Anchoring.

His threadweaving flared between his fingers, silver, sharp, old magic. It pulsed down her leg, into the grass, into the soil. The earth responded, thrumming back like a living drumbeat.

Kali gasped.

Her back arched, and the bond marks across her skin lit up like stars on fire. Her shadows hissed and recoiled, then clung to her body like armor. And still, the horses didn’t move.

Bentley stepped closer, lowered his massive head, and pressed his muzzle to her cheek.

“Kali,” Thorne whispered. “Come back. You stitched the veil. You bled for the Gate. But you’re not done.”

Her eyes fluttered. Her lips parted.

“I’m tired,” she whispered.

“You’re not allowed to break,” Irina said, stepping forward. “Not yet. Not now. We’re still in the storm.”

A low rumble echoed across the field.

Astraeus landed behind them in full dragon form, shifting as he landed, silver-black wings folding behind him. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His presence alone was a warning to the universe.

“I need her awake,” Astraeus said, voice taut.

“She’s coming back,” Solen answered, never looking away from her.

Then, her fingers twitched, and her eyes opened .

They glowed, not violet, not gold. Both. And then her voice….ragged, hoarse, furious:

“Where’s Silas?”

No one answered. The silence slammed into her harder than any blow.

His absence howled louder than the wind. Her soul reached, and touched only ash.

Her breath broke in her chest. Her knees threatened to buckle.

Silas.

The man who saved her life. The man who taught her how to fight. His absence howled louder than the wind. Her soul reached—and touched only ash.

A piece of her heart ripped free right there, bleeding into the soil.

Her shadows whimpered, a literal sound, of grief.

She pressed a trembling hand to Bentley’s side, stealing strength from his heartbeat.

Then she bared her teeth.

Her magic wasn’t thinking anymore, it was howling.

The grass curled and blackened around her. The horses didn't retreat. They leaned in.

Her body screamed for rest. Her magic screamed for vengeance. But her grief? It screamed for Silas.

Her soul didn’t whisper get up. It screamed: RISE OR BURN!

Bentley pressed his massive forehead to her shoulder. The bond marks across her skin flared, not golden, not violet; both .

Blackfire.

The bond marks had never burned like this, blackfire meant she wasn’t channeling magic. She was becoming it.

And Kali…..Kali rose.

If you can’t find him standing, then we will tear the world open until we do.

She sat up slowly, her dogs pressing in at the edges. Tiger growled. Nickel whined and licked her hand. Kota stood like a wall. Megan leaned into her side. Spike refused to stop pacing Bentley’s back like a lookout.

Finally, Thorne spoke. “We haven’t found him.”

Her body begged for rest. Her magic burned for vengeance. But her grief? It screamed Silas’s name. Her breath caught.

She shoved herself to her feet, barefoot, bleeding, and her magic leaking from her pores like wildfire wrapped in grief.

“Then we find him,” she said.

And the Hollow Gate pulsed in the distance, like it agreed.