27. Aeryn
AERYN
Everything fractures at once.
Sound splits into jagged pieces, steel clashing somewhere too close, stone breaking apart above us, voices cutting through the chaos in sharp commands that blur together before I can separate them.
Beneath it all the ruin itself begins to fail in earnest, not resisting anymore, not testing, but collapsing as though whatever held it together has finally given up.
I don’t think. I don’t have time. The first vision hits before I move.
A blade arcs toward Vaedros’s throat. I move before it lands.
My hand catches his arm, pulling him sideways just enough that the strike misses, the edge slicing through empty air, and I catch the full weight of him immediately, heavier than I expect.
His balance already gone, his body no longer holding itself upright with the control he carries so naturally.
For a second, his eyes meet mine. Then they don’t. He goes still. Unconscious. That changes everything.
Another vision tears through me. I try to lift him fully. My grip slips. We fall. We don’t get up.
Another.
I drag him too slowly. A spear drives through my side.
Another.
I hesitate. Just once. That’s enough.
No!
I force them back, pushing against the flood of outcomes, narrowing them, cutting away everything that ends in failure, because I don’t need all of them. I only need one.
Find it, Aeryn!
The heaviness behind my eyes builds fast, sharp enough to make my vision pulse, but I push through it, forcing the future into something usable, something controlled, until one path remains. Thin and fragile, but possible. That is all I need.
I move.
Vaedros is too heavy to carry cleanly, so I don’t try. I shift him instead, dragging his arm across my shoulders, turning my body under his weight until it settles across my back and down through my legs, forcing balance through positioning instead of strength.
It hurts, but it works.
“Stay with me,” I say under my breath, though he can’t hear it, though the words are more for me than for him. I take the first step.
The next attack comes from the left. I see it before it happens. I step right. The blade passes close enough that I feel the movement of air across my skin, and I keep going, never stopping, because stopping is where the path breaks.
Another vision strikes.
The floor ahead collapses. I shift direction immediately, dragging him between two fallen pillars instead of taking the open route, stepping over uneven stone that shifts under my weight but holds just long enough.
Behind us, the ground drops exactly where I would have been. No pause. No hesitation. The chamber is no longer a place. It’s a failure in motion.
Walls crack. Sections give way. Openings appear where there were none.
I use it.
Velkiron forces flood the space. Dark armor. Clean movement. They move with purpose. Too much purpose.
Another vision?—
Three of them turn. They see us.
I pivot before it happens, dragging Vaedros with me into a narrow break in the wall, forcing us through a passage that barely qualifies as a path, stone scraping against my shoulder as I push forward.
His weight drags too much, but I adjust. Lower stance. Shorter steps. Keep moving.
The pressure builds again. Another vision forces itself through.
This one is slower. I see him alive. Out of the ruin. Breathing. Then the image shifts. Hours later, he collapses. Dead anyway. I reject it. Find the one that holds.
The pain spikes, sharp enough to make my vision blur, but I hold onto the thread, that narrow line that leads somewhere he survives longer than this moment.
That’s enough.
The corridor bends downward, carved steps uneven and steep, and I half drag, half guide him down, his weight shifting unpredictably, pulling against my balance with every step.
“Stay with me,” I repeat, quieter now.
Another impact shakes the structure. Dust fills the air, thick and choking, settling into my lungs with every breath, and I fight through it, blinking hard, forcing my eyes to focus through the haze.
Another vision?—
The ceiling above us cracks. I move faster. Stone crashes down behind us, sealing the path we just crossed. This was too close.
The exit is near. I can feel it in the air. Cooler. Moving.
Another vision?—
The main passage collapses. I stop one step earlier than I would have. Stone crashes down ahead, blocking the path completely. I don’t hesitate. I turn immediately, taking the secondary route I barely saw, narrow and unstable, but it holds in the one future that matters.
I push through. The space tightens. Too tight for speed. Too tight for breath. His weight drags harder now, pulling at my shoulders, at my balance, forcing every step into effort I don’t have time for.
Another vision?—
I drop him. Just for a second. That second is enough to lose him…
I won’t let that happen. I adjust my grip, pulling him higher, forcing my body to compensate, forcing strength where I don’t have it.
Move.
Behind us, the ruin continues to collapse, the sound constant now, unrelenting, sealing everything behind us. The artifact is properly still close if I try I might take it from Xalith.
The thought barely registers. I let it go. Because I already chose. Not in the chamber. Not in the argument. Here. This path.
Him.
That is the only thing that matters now.
The final opening appears ahead, jagged and uneven, barely large enough to pass through, and I push toward it with everything I have left.
Then I force another vision. The ground outside gives way.
I slow just enough. Step wide instead of straight.
The earth shifts under my foot but holds.
We make it through. Behind us, the ruin collapses completely.
Stone crashes down in a final, overwhelming wave, sealing the entrance, burying everything inside, cutting off any path back.
The sound echoes. Then fades. Silence follows. Real silence. I don’t stop immediately.
I keep moving, step after step, putting distance between us and the ruin, between us and anyone who might still be searching.
Only when the air clears, when the ground steadies, when the pressure of the visions finally begins to ease, do I let his weight settle fully against me. Only then do I stop.
I lower him carefully, easing him down against the base of a tree, my hands slower now, more controlled, making sure he doesn’t fall harder than necessary.
For a moment, I just breathe. The world is quiet here. His face is pale beneath the blood, his breathing shallow, uneven, but there.
Alive. Barely.
I press my hand lightly against his chest, feeling the rhythm, counting it without meaning to, anchoring myself to something real instead of the fractured edges of everything I’ve just seen.
“You’re still here,” I say softly.
No response. I didn’t expect one. The weight of what I’ve done settles slowly, not all at once, but in pieces.
The artifact is gone. The mission failed. Everything we came here for is buried beneath stone or stolen.
And I chose this anyway. I glance at him again. At the steady rise and fall of his chest, at the tension still held in his features even now, even unconscious, as though control is something his body refuses to release completely.
“You’re going to hate this,” I murmur.
A quiet breath escapes me, something close to a laugh, though there’s no humor in it.
“But you’re alive.”
That has to be enough. It has to be.
But standing still doesn’t last. It never does.
I draw in a slow breath and force myself to look beyond him, beyond the fragile stillness we’ve carved out of chaos, scanning the terrain with the same urgency that carried us out of the ruin.
The air is colder here, thinner, carrying the damp scent of earth and moss, something untouched by the collapse behind us.
It should feel like relief. It doesn’t. Not yet.
We’re exposed, and exposure is a delay, not safety.
My gaze returns to him despite myself. His face has settled into something quieter in unconsciousness, the sharp control he carries softened just enough to make him look… different. Less guarded. Less unreachable. It unsettles me more than anything else has today.
He looks almost peaceful. The thought feels misplaced. Because even now, there is tension in him, held in the lines of his body.
That part of him doesn’t fade, even like this. I find myself studying it longer than I should, tracing the contrast between stillness and strength, between what he shows and what remains underneath.
I exhale and force my focus away. The wound comes first.
I move closer and push aside the torn fabric at his side, revealing the damage beneath.
It’s worse than I allowed myself to believe in the moment, deeper, the blood darker now, slower but still steady.
My fingers press lightly around it, assessing, measuring without tools, relying on instinct and necessity.
“This is going to be a problem,” I murmur, more to the air than to him.
I don’t have much. No proper supplies. No certainty this will hold. It has to anyway.
I tear a strip from my sleeve, the fabric resisting for a moment before giving way, and press it firmly against the wound.
The blood seeps through quickly, warm against my hand, but I keep the pressure steady, waiting until it slows, until I can wrap it properly.
Each movement is careful, binding it tight enough to hold without making it worse.
He doesn’t stir. Good.
When I finish, I sit back on my heels for a moment, breathing slower now, grounding myself in the quiet, in something real and present instead of everything I had to force myself through to get here.
That’s when I see it. A break in the terrain ahead.
Subtle. Easy to miss unless you’re looking for something more than the obvious.
A cave. Small, partially hidden by stone and overgrowth, but deep enough to conceal us, to give us cover from anything that might still be searching.
The sight of it sends a sharp, immediate relief through me, the kind that doesn’t last long but matters enough.
“Of course,” I mutter under my breath.
I push myself back to my feet and move to him again, adjusting my grip, pulling his arm over my shoulders once more. The weight settles harder this time, or maybe my body is finally catching up to everything I’ve pushed it through. Either way, it doesn’t change what needs to be done.
I brace. Then move.
Step by step, slow and controlled, guiding his weight with mine, forcing balance where it wants to fail.
Each movement takes more effort than the last, my arms tightening, my breath growing uneven, but I don’t stop.
Not until we reach the cave. Not until the stone closes around us and the open space disappears behind us.
Only then do I lower him again, carefully this time, easing him down against the inner wall where the ground is more stable. The quiet inside is different. Heavier. Safer. For now.
I remain there, sitting beside him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, counting each breath without meaning to. Making sure it continues.
“You’re not allowed to die after all that,” I say quietly, the words softer now, almost lost to the stillness.
The sound lingers briefly against the stone before fading.