43. Rylan
43
RYLAN
S eraphina’s blood is everywhere. It coats my arms, my hands, soaks into my skin like it belongs there. Like it’s a stain I’ll never be rid of. Her body is too still in my arms, her breathing too shallow.
And I can’t lose her.
The night roars around us. Flames devour the remains of Nhilian’s castle, sending black smoke twisting into the sky like a dying god’s final breath. I hear the distant screams of those trapped inside, the clash of swords, the smell of burning flesh.
I don’t stop. None of it means a damn thing if I don’t get her out of here.
I cut through the remaining guards like a knife through silk. A dark elf lunges from the left, sword glinting in the firelight. I twist, pivoting just enough to avoid the strike, and slam my dagger into his throat. His breath gurgles, blood spilling over his lips as he drops.
I don’t watch him die.
There’s no time.
Another comes.
I parry.
A brutal slice to the gut.
A scream.
A body crumpling to the earth.
The real threat is a flash of silver.
A crossbow.
Pointed directly at me.
I can’t dodge in time.
But I don’t have to.
Seraphina moves.
I don’t realize she’s awake until she grabs my knife from my belt.
Her grip is weak—her body swaying in my arms, but the moment the assassin’s finger pulls the trigger, she throws the dagger.
The blade buries itself in the bastard’s eye.
He crumples.
Dead before he hits the ground.
Seraphina shudders against me, breath ragged.
"You’re awake," I rasp.
Her eyes flicker open, glazed, pained.
Her smirk is faint, barely there.
"Couldn’t let you… take all the credit."
A sharp exhale of breath—part relief, part rage.
"You’re bleeding out," I snap. "You should be unconscious."
She laughs, weak and broken.
"Still breathing," she whispers.
Then her eyes close again.
I swear under my breath and move faster. The tunnel entrance is just ahead. Dark. Hidden beneath the crumbling remains of Nhilian’s fortress. The escape route I planned before I ever walked into this death trap.
But there are still two guards blocking the way.
My grip on Seraphina tightens.
She doesn’t have time for this. We both don’t.
I strike first.
I move before they can react, before they can register the bloodstained monster charging toward them.
The first guard doesn’t get the chance to lift his weapon before my sword is through his chest.
The second hesitates.
That’s all I need.
I grab his face and slam it against the stone wall.
Once.
Twice.
Bone cracks.
He drops, twitching, then goes still.
The path is clear.
I don’t hesitate.
I disappear into the tunnels, Seraphina held tight against my chest.
I don’t stop running.
Not until the fires fade behind us.
Not until the screams become nothing but a distant whisper of death.
Not until I know we’re safe.
Only then do I finally collapse to my knees, dragging in breath after breath.
And only then do I finally let myself look at her.
Seraphina.
Her skin is too pale in the dim torchlight.
Her breath too slow . My heart beats like a war drum, frantic and racing.
No. No. I can’t fix this.
I hold my hand against her wound, trying to stem the bleeding.
Trying to keep her here.
Her eyelashes flutter.
She’s barely clinging to consciousness.
But she’s fighting.
She’s always fighting.
I brush blood-matted hair from her face.
She leans into the touch.
Barely.
But enough.
Enough to make something crack open inside me.
Something raw.
Something terrifying.
Something that feels too much like love.
I swallow hard.
She can’t see me like this.
Can’t see me break.
So I school my face into steel and force my voice to steady.
"You’re going to be fine," I murmur.
Her lips twitch, like she doesn’t believe me.
Like she knows what I won’t say.
That I would burn the world for her.
That I would tear apart heaven and hell just to keep her breathing.
That I have never wanted anything more than I want her to live.
I was wrong.
I told myself I didn’t care.
That she was just a pawn.
Just another piece in my game.
But the truth is raw and ugly.
The truth is choking me.
I am in love with her.
And I am going to lose her.
No.
I won’t let that happen.
I move my forehead against hers.
"I’m not letting you go," I whisper, voice hoarse.
"Do you hear me, little thief?"
Her breath shudders.
So faint I almost don’t hear it?—
A whisper.
A promise.
A plea.
"Don’t."
My grip tightens.
I won’t. There’s no letting go.