Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Casteel's world collapsed into a single, terrible focus—the spreading crimson beneath his hands, the weight of Nero's body growing heavier with each labored breath. He felt his mate's life force flickering like a candle in a hurricane, growing weaker with each heartbeat.
"Help!" he screamed at the guards, at Doran, at anyone who might listen. "Get a healer!"
But chaos had erupted across the balcony. More explosions echoed from the city below as Doran's carefully orchestrated ceremony devolved into panic. Guards shouted conflicting orders while the High Priest raged about assassins and divine retribution.
Through the mayhem, figures in rough clothing scaled the palace walls with practiced efficiency—not citizens fleeing the explosions, but trained soldiers executing a coordinated assault. Casteel barely registered their approach, his entire being focused on the man dying in his arms.
"Stay with me," he whispered desperately, pressing his forehead against Nero's. "Don't you dare leave me."
Nero's eyes fluttered open, unfocused but alive. Blood frothed at the corners of his mouth as he tried to speak. "Eryken...didn't know..."
"Shh," Casteel soothed, though terror clawed at his throat. "Save your strength."
The first rebel reached the balcony, hauling himself over the stone railing with fluid grace.
Casteel looked up to see Lucan Tarreth, the infiltrator guard, now dressed in the leather and steel of a fighting man.
Behind him came others—hard-faced veterans with the efficient movements of Eryken's rebellion.
"Secure the area!" Lucan barked, his men spreading out to engage the confused palace guards. Steel rang against steel as the balcony became a battlefield.
"The healer!" Casteel shouted at Lucan as the rebel captain approached. "Get Makim!"
Lucan's weathered face was grim as he assessed Nero's wounds. "Too much blood. We need to move now, before Doran rallies his forces."
"He'll die if we move him!"
"He'll die if we don't," Lucan countered harshly. "Doran's men are already sealing the exits. This is our only chance."
As if summoned by their desperation, Makim appeared through the chaos, his healer's satchel clutched in white knuckles. The old man's face went ashen as he saw the spreading pool of blood, but his hands were steady as he knelt beside them.
"Arrow to the shoulder missed the major vessels," he muttered, working with swift efficiency. "But this one..." His fingers probed the wound between Nero's ribs, and his patient convulsed with pain. "Close to the lung. Maybe punctured."
"Please,” Casteel begged. Not entirely sure what miracle he begged for. He didn't care about the prophesy. Didn't care about the risk to himself. He just wanted this man, alive and whole, and back in his arms.
"We need to remove the arrows before we move him," Makim said, reaching for his satchel. "But I need more hands—hold him steady."
Lucan barked orders and two rebels broke away from the fighting, kneeling beside them. Casteel cradled Nero's head, trying to project strength through their weakening bond.
"This will cause him pain," Makim warned, gripping the shaft protruding from Nero's shoulder.
"Do it," Casteel commanded, his voice steadier than he felt.
Makim nodded to his impromptu assistants. "On my count. Three, two—"
He snapped the shaft, then swiftly extracted the arrowhead. Nero's body convulsed, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. Blood welled fresh from the wound, but Makim pressed a poultice against it with practiced efficiency.
"The second is more dangerous," the healer muttered, examining the arrow lodged between Nero's ribs. "If I remove it here, he could bleed out before I can treat him properly."
Another explosion rocked the palace, closer this time. Plaster dust rained down from the ceiling as the fighting intensified around them.
"We're out of time," Lucan growled. "Doran's reinforcements are coming."
Through their bond, Casteel felt Nero's consciousness flickering like a guttering candle. Each breath bubbled wetly in his chest, and his skin had taken on an alarming pallor beneath its usual tan.
"You did this," Casteel screamed at Lucan. "You were there. You saw us." He'd been at the evening ceremony.
Lucan met his gaze but didn't reply and Makim snapped at both of them. "Not the time. I'll stabilize the shaft for transport. But we must move quickly."
The healer worked with swift efficiency, binding the remaining arrow shaft to prevent movement while he packed the shoulder wound with herbs that slowed the bleeding. When he finished, he looked up at Lucan.
"Carry him as level as possible. Any jostling could drive the arrow deeper."
Lucan gestured to his strongest men. "Make a litter from those curtain rods and the banner cloth."
As the rebels hastily constructed a makeshift stretcher, Casteel leaned close to Nero, pressing his lips to his mate's clammy forehead.
"Stay with me," he whispered fiercely. "I can't do this without you." Because right at that moment he didn't care if he died so long as Nero lived.
Nero's eyelids fluttered, his gaze unfocused but seeking Casteel's face. Through their bond came not words but emotions—determination, regret, and something deeper that made Casteel's heart clench painfully.
"Ready," Lucan announced as his men positioned the litter beside Nero's prone form.
With exquisite care, they transferred Nero onto the stretcher. Each slight movement sent fresh blood seeping through the makeshift bandages, and Nero's face contorted with pain despite his semiconscious state. Through their bond, Casteel felt every spike of agony as if it were his own.
"Move," Lucan commanded, and they lifted the litter with military precision.
The journey through the palace corridors was a nightmare of stealth and speed.
Lucan's men had secured their route, but the sounds of battle echoed from every direction as Doran's forces rallied.
They descended the servant's stairs in careful stages, pausing at each landing while scouts checked for threats ahead.
Casteel walked beside the litter, one hand maintaining constant contact with Nero's arm.
Through their bond, he felt his mate's life force ebbing and flowing like a tide, sometimes stronger, sometimes terrifyingly weak.
Makim stayed close, monitoring Nero's breathing and checking the bandages for fresh bleeding.
"Almost there," Casteel whispered as they reached the kitchen level. The familiar smells of bread and herbs seemed foreign now, tainted by the metallic scent of blood and the acrid smoke drifting through the palace.
The kitchen was abandoned, pots still simmering on their hooks but no sign of the staff. Casteel stopped Lucan and led them to the pantry where he and Nero had hidden before, his hands shaking as he manipulated the hidden mechanism.
"Here," he said as the passage opened. "It's narrow, but it leads directly to the old temple ruins behind the palace."
"The temple's been abandoned for years," Lucan observed as they maneuvered the litter into the cramped space.
"Exactly why no one will look for us there," Casteel replied, taking his position beside Nero's head.
"There's a chamber beneath the altar—dry, defensible, with fresh water from an old well.
" For the first time ever, he was thankful for having insatiable curiosity as a child while his ma worked long days.
"How do you possibly know?" Lucan asked.
"Because I grew up here," Casteel snapped with a show of teeth.
The passage was torture, every bump and scrape threatening to jostle the arrow lodged between Nero's ribs.
Makim walked backward, constantly monitoring his patient's condition by the light of a single shielded lantern.
Twice they had to stop when Nero's breathing became too labored, the healer administering drops of some stimulant to keep him breathing.
When they finally emerged into the ruins of the old temple, dawn was breaking over the city.
Smoke columns rose from multiple points across Abergenny, evidence of Eryken's coordinated assault on Doran's power base.
The temple itself was a shell of its former glory—crumbling stone walls overgrown with vines, the roof long since collapsed.
"Down here," Casteel directed, leading them to a stairway hidden behind fallen masonry. "The chamber below is intact."
The underground room had clearly been used as a sanctuary in years past. Stone benches lined the walls, and an altar dominated the far end, but everything was covered in dust and neglect.
Most importantly, it was hidden, secure, and had the clean water Makim would need for his work.
The rebels gently laid Nero's litter on the altar itself, stripping away rotting ceremonial cloths to create a clean surface.
"Everyone out except the healer," Lucan ordered, his men filing back toward the stairs to establish a perimeter. "The commander will want a report."
"Commander?" Casteel looked up sharply. "Eryken is here?"
Lucan's expression hardened. "He awaits us at our fallback position. This...complication wasn't part of the plan."
"Complication?" Casteel's voice cracked with disbelief. "Your archers shot my mate!"
"We knew nothing about your relationship," Lucan countered, something like regret flickering across his weathered features.
"The mission was to eliminate the so-called savior before Doran could use him to seize complete control.
No one expected..." He gestured toward Nero's unconscious form. "We thought it was artifice."
"Get out," Casteel snarled, wolf-gold flaring in his eyes. "Before I forget you're trying to help us."
Makim moved with swift efficiency, unpacking his medicines and instruments. "I need water, clean cloths from my pack, and more light," he instructed, his tone brooking no argument.