27. Chapter 27
AMARIA
Eryndor and I fought back to back.
The only way to survive this battle. The Fury burned through the reality distortion—when I raged, the world snapped into focus around me. The flickering stopped as the doubles disappeared and time smoothed.
Eryndor stayed close. Near me, his blade hit real targets.
With my Fury, he could trust his eyes, his instincts, his training.
We didn't need to speak or signal; we simply bled into each other's rhythm.
He shifted into the spaces I left empty before I even finished my strike—his reach covering my blind spots, my Fury clearing his vision.
A void soldier materialized to my left. I turned into it fast—Dawnrender opening the throat while my elbow blade clipped the soldier behind it before either fully solidified.
Another came from behind. Eryndor's blade found it, drove through, sent it scattering into particles that dissolved before they hit the ground.
We were holding.
Barely. But holding.
The King watched from the edge of the battlefield. That smile still on his face. Studying us. Studying his son.
He raised one hand.
Made a small gesture.
A void soldier broke from the swarm.
It phased directly through Eryndor's guard, materializing with a blade already past his defenses. Already inside his reach.
The blade found the gap in his armor.
Sank in. Eryndor dropped.
Time stopped.
The rest of the battlefield ceased to exist. Every sound went silent.
The clash of steel, the screams of soldiers, the roar of distant dragonfire—all of it disappeared.
There was only the sound of the wet slide of steel pulling free from his flesh, then the heavy thud of his body hitting the ground, punctuated by a single, ragged gasp.
He was on the glassed-over earth. Blood pooling beneath him. Eyes wide with shock.
The Fury detonated.
Gold and shadow obliterated the world. I wasn't there anymore. I was just rage given form, just grief with teeth, just the sound of his body hitting the ground playing on an endless loop while something ancient and terrible used my bones to—
Gone. All of it gone. A gap in my mind where seconds should be.
I came back to myself on my knees beside him. Glass cracked in a perfect circle around us. Ash drifting down like black snow. The void soldiers—the ones that had been close—weren't there anymore. Just scorch marks. Just silence.
My hands found the wound—his side, just below the ribs, blood pumping between my fingers with every heartbeat.
"Eryndor." His name tore out of me. "Eryndor, look at me."
His eyes were open. But wrong. Glassy. Looking through me instead of at me.
"Hey. No. Stay here." I pressed harder on the wound. Felt the hot pulse of his blood against my palms, soaking through my fingers, pooling on the glass beneath us. Too much. Too fast. "You don't get to leave. You hear me? You don't get to—"
His mouth moved. No sound came out.
"What? What are you—" I leaned closer. "Say it again. Eryndor. Say it again!"
"...mar...ia." Barely a breath. His hand twitched toward me. Fell back.
The armor was supposed to protect him. The armor was supposed to keep him safe.
The blade had found the gap anyway.
"Don't." I didn't know what I was saying anymore. "Don't you dare. We didn't come this far for you to bleed out on glass. We didn't survive everything just for—"
His eyes started to drift closed.
"NO." I grabbed his face with one blood-slicked hand. Forced him to look at me. "You stay. You stay with me. That's an order, Crownforged."
A faint, strained tightness gripped his features. It was the deeply carved discipline of a lifetime dragging him back from the dark by sheer force of will. His lashes fluttered against my fingers, but he held the stare.
"Good." My voice cracked. "Good. Keep looking at me. Don't stop."
His breathing steadied. Fractionally. His eyes found mine—actually found them this time, not that terrible empty stare.
"Missed the vitals." His voice was barely there. A rasp. "I think."
"Stop talking."
"You're shaking."
"I said stop talking."
The Fury roared under my skin. My vision pulsed gold at the edges. The glass beneath my knees was starting to crack—hairline fractures spreading outward from where I crouched. I could feel the heat radiating off my own body, smell flesh burning, didn't know if it was the battlefield or me.
Not yet. Not yet. He's still bleeding. You let go now and you burn him too.
My hands stayed on the wound. Shaking. Smoking faintly where his blood met my skin.
I didn't look up. Didn't look at the soldiers still flickering at the edges of the field. Didn't look at the King.
If I looked, I'd kill. And I couldn't kill until he stopped bleeding.
His hand came up. Covered mine on his wound. His fingers were cold. Slick with his own blood.
My stomach heaved. I turned my head and retched—nothing came up except bile and air. My arms were shaking so hard I could barely keep pressure on the wound. I couldn't get enough air. Couldn't make my lungs work right. Short, ragged gasps that weren't breathing—just panic finally catching up.
"Hey." His hand tightened on mine. "Hey. I'm here," he murmured.
He was lying. He had to be lying. There was so much blood. It was still coming, still pulsing hot between my fingers, still pooling on the glass beneath us.
"You don't know that," I said through clenched teeth.
"Then don't let go." His eyes held mine. Bright with pain. "Stay with me."
I pressed harder. Felt his breath hitch at the pain. Didn't let up.
The battlefield still raged somewhere behind me. I could hear it—the clash, the screams, the roar of dragonfire. None of it mattered.
There was only his blood on my hands. His heartbeat under my palms. The terrible math of how much a body could lose and still survive.
I didn't look up. Didn't let go.