34. Roan
Roan
I see her— Aria —trapped between two enforcers, her arms pinned, her eyes wide and glassy with tears, and something inside me snaps.
Rage surges like wildfire, unstoppable. The blood in my veins ignites, a roar rising in my ears that drowns out everything else. She left me . She signed ‘Mouse’ in that goddamn note and walked into hell alone.
But I’ll be damned before I let them touch her again. I’ll burn this whole place down if I have to. I’ll tear them apart piece by piece.
Because she’s mine. And I’m not leaving without her.
My grip tightens on my sword, the hilt slick from the blood already spilled. I raise it slowly, blade still dripping, and aim the point toward the woman on the far side of the ruined foyer. Raven hair, fine clothes, a regal pose that sets every muscle in my body on edge.
Aria’s mother, Lysara.
She stares at me like I’m nothing more than a stray dog tracking mud through her throne room. My lip curls.
“You want her?” I growl, voice low and venomous. “Then you’ll have to go through me.”
The enforcers go still, their glowing eyes glinting in the half-light. Dust floats through broken beams of moonlight like ash from a fire not yet started.
This is the match.
The woman—Aria’s mother—tilts her head. “You’re bold for a mortal,” she says, voice cool and lilting. “Bold and very, very foolish.”
Behind me, the door hangs crooked, cracked from where I forced it open with my boot. I’m bleeding—shoulder, thigh, somewhere on my ribs. Doesn’t matter. I’ve fought through worse. And this time, I have something to fight for.
Aria gasps, twisting against the enforcers’ hold. “Roan…” her voice breaks on my name.
That’s all I need.
I shift forward, jaw clenched, sword raised, breath ragged in my chest. I don’t care if they outnumber me five to one. Ten to one.
I’ll bury them all.
“Kill her,” the woman says, voice like breaking glass.
The enforcers move. A blur of speed—unnatural, fast, lethal.
I catch the first blade mid-swing and shove it aside, pivoting into the attacker with a slash across his chest. Blood sprays warm and thick, and he collapses. But the next one is already on me, something sharp raking across my shoulder. Pain tears through me, white-hot and blinding.
I barely dodge the third, feeling the edge of steel graze my ribs. The fourth slams into me like a battering ram, and we go down in a tangle of limbs and snarls.
I twist beneath him, using my momentum to flip him over, pinning him with my weight. He thrashes, wild and fast, and when I drive my elbow into his throat, he chokes—but not before his lips peel back in a feral snarl.
His fangs flash—too long, too sharp—and he lunges, trying to bite.
I don’t hesitate.
I catch the glint of my blade and drag it across his throat in one clean, practiced motion. His body jerks once, then stills beneath me. Then I’m up again as the next two swing at me.
Every breath feels like a firebrand in my lungs. My sword arm screams in protest, but I don’t stop swinging. Can’t.
I catch a glimpse—Aria, straining, thrashing—her captor's knee slamming into her ribs to keep her down. Her voice rises above the din, sharp and shaking: “Stop— please! ”
I look up—blood in my eyes—and she kicks one of them. He stumbles. She twists—
“ Roan, I—I love you! ” she shouts.
The world narrows.
The words slam into me harder than any blade, flooding my chest with a desperate, aching warmth. She loves me.
And that’s it.
The next enforcer gets a pommel to the jaw and collapses like a sack of meat. I spin, blood flying from my blade, and take down another before he can lunge.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her mother move, her dark silhouette crossing the debris-littered floor. She picks up a fallen sword and test-swings it with chilling poise, like she’s done this a thousand times. Maybe she has.
“Hold her,” she snaps at the others.
They obey. A second enforcer grabs Aria, keeping her down, and she screams my name. It guts me.
Lysara lifts her sword and levels it at me with a smug little smile. “You think you’re worthy of my daughter’s defiance? Of her love ?”
My breath burns in my throat, but I raise my sword, refusing to kneel. “I think,” I rasp, blood dripping down my arm, “that I won’t let you take her.”
Her lip twitches. And then she lunges .
Our blades clash, the sound echoing through the gutted foyer. The impact jars my spine, nearly takes me off my feet. She’s fast—inhumanly so—and strong. Each strike sends shocks down my arm. I parry, pivot, duck—barely keeping ahead of her relentless attacks.
She spins. Her blade slices across my thigh. I stagger, biting back a scream. My blood hits the floor in a hot rush, and I nearly drop to one knee.
But I see Aria, still pinned, still fighting. She loves me.
And that gives me enough strength to lift my sword again.
I won’t fall. Not while Aria still needs me.
Not until I’ve burned this whole damn house to the ground.
Aria’s voice, sharp and ragged, cuts through the chaos like a blade. She’s crying out for me, begging them to stop, and it fuels me like fire in my veins. Just a little more , I grit out in my mind, swinging harder.
I catch a break—a sloppy parry from her mother, and I lunge forward, slashing hard. My blade slices through the woman's sleeve, drawing blood. A thin line, not nearly enough. But it makes her pause.
She doesn’t flinch. Just smirks.
Then she steps in again, faster than I can track, and the tip of her blade bites into my collarbone, driving me backward. I stumble. Her strength is relentless, crushing. My knees dip. Her sword presses deeper.
“Enough,” she hisses.
That’s it—she’s going to kill me.
In that second, I catch a flicker of movement—Aria’s captors are distracted. They think it’s over. They think I’m done. I use that. I roar through gritted teeth and slam my shoulder into her mother’s, knocking her off-balance. The sword glances off my side with a burn, but I don’t care.
She stumbles, not expecting resistance, and I use that precious second to hurl myself at the nearest enforcer. My sword arcs in a vicious slash, freeing Aria with a startled gasp from her captor’s grip.
I pivot on instinct, hurling myself toward the next nearest enforcer. My blade arcs, fast and vicious. Blood spurts. He cries out and drops. Aria gasps—free.
I barely register the relief before a glint of metal flashes in my peripheral vision. Her mother, graceful and terrifying, is stepping forward again, sword rising. Her enforcers are raising their swords as well.
“Kill her,” Lysara says, calm, final. A command.
Two enforcers lunge towards me, one in front, one behind.
I won’t make it.
I know I won’t make it.
And then Aria moves.
She tears past the enforcers like she’s made of fire. Her cloak whips behind her, her fangs bared, and her voice rings out in a vicious snarl.
“No!”
It happens too fast: an enforcer lunges for my exposed back, blade raised for the killing blow. Aria intercepts him in mid-swing, arms outstretched.
The sound it makes—the thunk of steel sinking into flesh—is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
“ Aria! ” I scream.
Time fractures. Everything slows.
Her body jerks, blood blooming across her midsection. She collapses back into me, the shock in her eyes quickly giving way to agony. My arms catch her automatically. The sword clatters to the floor. I don't even remember dropping it.
I can’t breathe.
Then, out of nowhere, her mother moves—inhumanly fast—and drives her hand through the enforcer who struck her daughter. Through his ribcage . It’s an inhuman gesture. Bones crack. Blood sprays. He drops like a rag doll, lifeless. Just like that.
She yanks her hand free, slick and dripping, and the room goes still .
Aria sags in my arms, her breath rattling against my throat. I drop with her, cradling her against my chest as we crumple to the floor, together. One hand presses to the wound—hot, wet, endless blood spills over my fingers. My hands won’t stop shaking.
“Aria?” I choke. “ Aria, stay with me. ”
She doesn’t answer, just whimpers between gasps.
Her mother stares at us, a pale statue, black eyes flicking between Aria’s pale face and my frantic hold. She’s not triumphant. Not furious. Just… still. Her black eyes track every movement, but she doesn’t speak.
Her silence is worse than her cruelty.
“Fool,” she murmurs, voice low. “You’d die for this mortal?”
Aria shifts, barely, her lips parting. But there’s no voice behind the breath she exhales. I feel her slipping—slipping right out of my grasp.
And I break.
I pull her tighter to me, jaw clenched so hard it aches. “You don’t get to speak like she’s nothing,” I snap, rage cutting through the terror. “You don’t get to watch her die!”
The mother blinks. Something flickers behind her gaze—not pity. Not yet. Maybe… curiosity. Then, to my shock, she turns away from us both. She doesn’t strike; she doesn’t finish me off. Instead, she gestures to the few remaining enforcers, an order of retreat. Most leave, one lingers.
When she turns back to us, her steps slow, calculated. She tilts her head like she’s studying something foreign behind glass. “Intriguing,” she murmurs. “You love her as well.” A pause. A faint narrowing of her eyes. “I wonder… why?”
The words strike something raw inside me.
My jaw clenches, rage rising so fast it nearly chokes me. I can’t believe I’m still kneeling here, bloodied and gasping, while this woman dares to ask why . While Aria— my Aria —lies barely breathing in my arms.
I hold her tighter, her weight pressing against my chest like the world is trying to crush me. Her blood is warm and slick beneath my hands, and I’m doing everything I can not to fall apart.
“Because she’s good,” I rasp, my voice shaking with fury. “Because she’s brave. Because she left everything behind to be better than what you made her into. That’s why.”
I look up, eyes burning. “And because I’d rather die here with her than live in a world where she doesn’t.”
Her mother says nothing.
The foyer is too quiet. The kind of quiet that rings in your ears and makes your heart feel like it’s the only sound left in the world. Aria’s blood keeps soaking into my clothes. I can’t stop it. I can’t stop it.
“She’s dying,” I whisper, my voice cracking, raw. “Help her. Please.”
Her mother stares down at me with that unreadable expression, her gaze flicking from Aria’s face to mine like she’s reading a ledger—measuring loss, weighing cost. She doesn’t move. Just watches. As if she’s deciding whether Aria’s life is worth the price of mercy.
My gut twists. If she says no—
“Why?” the woman finally asks, cool and calm, as though my desperation is some academic curiosity. “What drives you to beg your enemy?”
I snap .
A scream tears from my throat. “Because she’s everything!” I shout, voice ragged and wild. “Because I love her! Because I don’t care what happens to me— just fucking save her! ”
I don’t wait for her to answer. I can’t . I draw my dagger and slash a deep line across my wrist. The pain barely registers. Blood flows, fast and hot. I press it to Aria’s lips, my fingers trembling.
“Come on, Mouse,” I beg, my voice cracking. “Just a little. Please. You have to drink.”
She doesn’t.
Her lips stay slack. Her breathing is shallow, fading by the second.
I tip my wrist again, letting the blood fall. “You can yell at me later. Just… stay. Please, stay.”
But her body stays limp in my arms. Her lips don’t part.
“No,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers. “No, no, no…”
Then a sigh.
Cold, clipped.
I look up just as Aria’s mother steps forward with a flick of her hand. The remaining enforcer obeys instantly, bringing her a clean blade. She doesn’t even glance at him. Instead, she kneels—so casually it’s almost unnerving.
“Stop flinching,” she mutters—to me, I think—as if I’m some child wincing at a scrape.
I watch, heart stuttering, as she slices her own palm open. Thick, black-red blood wells up and drips onto Aria’s wound.
I flinch anyway.
“Our blood can heal,” she says absently, disdain curling her lip. “If we so choose.”
And I realize what she’s doing.
Aria jerks suddenly in my arms—a small, startled gasp. Her fingers twitch. The wound in her side begins to close, slow but sure. The worst of the bleeding stops. Her skin, once too pale, begins to flush with warmth again.
“Aria,” I whisper, barely able to breathe. I cradle her tighter, pressing my cheek to hers. Her lashes flutter. Her hand clutches weakly at my shirt.
Relief hits me like a blow, stealing the breath from my lungs.
I don’t even notice her mother standing until she speaks again.
“Loyalty and love,” she muses, rising to her full height. “You mortals cling to it in such baffling ways.”
She turns her gaze on Aria—still dazed, still cradled in my arms—and something flickers there. Not softness. Not anything close to love. But curiosity . A crack in the porcelain mask.
Then she nods once to her lone guard. “We’re leaving. Take the wounded. Let them be.”
He obeys without question, passing the order to the others. No one so much as touches us.
As the enforcers melt into the shadows, the woman lingers one heartbeat longer. Her gaze flicks to me, something dark and unreadable in her eyes.
“You love her,” she says again, quieter this time. “Perhaps that’s worth watching.”
And then she’s gone.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe .
I just hold Aria, her blood still on my hands, my arms locked tight around her trembling frame. Her breath hits my collarbone—real and fragile and there —and the sob I’ve been holding back shatters through me.
She’s alive.
For now, that’s enough.