Chapter 36 #2
Through it all, I feel Lyanna. Not cowering behind our defensive line—fighting. Her healing magic flows in reverse, seeking corruption threads to unravel. Every construct we drive toward her position, she touches with purifying energy, making them dissolve permanently instead of reforming.
She’s not just defending. She’s using the battle itself to strengthen the evidence, making Faelan’s corruption more visible with each construct she purifies.
I catch her eye across the chaos. She nods once—she knows what I need.
I shift back to wolf form, using my enhanced speed to drive constructs toward her position in coordinated strikes.
She hits them with targeted healing bursts that reveal their true nature—pure corruption given temporary form.
Each one that dissolves adds another thread to the evidence display hovering above us, strengthening rather than weakening the proof of Faelan’s crimes.
Faelan sees it happening. Sees his desperate attack actually helping expose him further. His face contorts with inhuman rage, the last vestiges of his aristocratic mask crumbling completely.
“No. NO!”
The air behind him tears open with a sound like reality screaming. A portal. Hastily constructed and bleeding dimensional energy from its unstable edges. He’s going to run rather than face capture and judgment.
“He’s escaping!” Derek shouts from across the throne room.
Before anyone can reach him, Faelan gathers every scrap of remaining corruption in the throne room—pulling it from the constructs, from the walls, from the very air—and hurls it at us in one final, massive blast. Not trying to kill anymore. Just trying to create enough chaos to cover his escape.
The wave of dark magic crashes toward the center of the throne room where Lyanna stands, still maintaining the evidence display. She could let it go, could shield herself. But she won’t—I see it in the set of her jaw, the way she plants her feet wider. This proof is too important.
I’m already moving, my wolf form covering the distance in heartbeats. But the corruption wave is faster, and I know I won’t reach her in time to get her clear.
Ben and Rafe throw up shields with everything they have. Rhonan exhales a wall of dragon fire hot enough to melt stone. But the corruption is too concentrated, too powerful—Faelan burning through his own life force to make this final attack overwhelming.
I shift back to human form mid-leap, throwing my body toward Lyanna with every ounce of speed I possess.
Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. I see her determination. Her refusal to abandon the evidence, even if it costs her everything.
The corruption wave crashes into us as I reach her, my arms wrapping around her body.
The impact drives us both to our knees, dark magic slamming against us like a physical wall.
I feel it trying to burrow into my skin, that familiar sickly burn I remember from the contamination crisis—cold and wrong and hungry.
But Lyanna’s hands are already glowing. Not shielding. Unraveling.
Golden-green light erupts from her palms, and I feel the moment her healing magic locks onto the corruption’s structure. She’s not fighting it with brute force—she’s reading it, the same way she read the contamination in our pack’s blood. Finding the threads. Understanding the pattern.
Then pulling it apart.
The corruption wave shudders, its momentum faltering. Lyanna’s breath comes in sharp gasps against my chest, her whole body trembling with effort. I hold her tighter, lending her my strength through the bond—everything I have, every scrap of Guardian endurance, flowing into her.
“I see it,” she whispers, her voice distant with concentration. “The structure. It’s the same as the contamination. The same as the constructs. All connected to him.”
Her hands move in precise patterns, golden-green light weaving through the dark magic like a surgeon’s blade through infected tissue. Where she touches, corruption dissolves—not dispersing, but unmaking. Returning to nothing.
The wave begins to collapse inward on itself.
Faelan screams—a sound of pure rage and disbelief. He pours more power into the attack, his physical form visibly deteriorating. Patches of his skin slough away, revealing the pulsing corruption beneath.
But Lyanna doesn’t stop. Her purification spreads outward from our position, racing through the corruption faster than Faelan can feed it. The golden-green light intensifies until I have to squint against the glare, her healing magic blazing like a second sun in the heart of the throne room.
The purification screams through the chamber—a sound like metal tearing, glass shattering, something ancient and poisonous finally dying. Crystal walls crack. The floor buckles beneath us. I pull Lyanna closer, shielding her with my body as debris rains down around us.
When the light fades, the corruption is gone. Not retreated—gone. The constructs have dissolved into nothing. The ambient darkness that clung to every surface has been burned away. Even the sickly feeling in the air has lifted.
Faelan staggers backward, his ruined form barely holding together. Behind him, a portal tears open—hastily constructed, bleeding dimensional energy from its unstable edges.
“This isn’t over!” His voice comes out wet and rattling, more corruption than vocal cords. “I’ll destroy everything you love! Every bond you’ve ever formed! I’ll tear down everything you’ve built!”
He crosses the threshold, his decaying body vanishing into the dimensional rift. The portal collapses behind him, reality folding inward with a hollow whoosh that leaves my ears ringing.
Then silence.
I become aware of my own breathing first—ragged, harsh, my lungs burning from exertion. My arms are still wrapped around Lyanna, both of us kneeling on the cracked marble floor. Her weight sags against me, exhaustion finally claiming her now that the immediate threat has passed.
“Lyanna.” My voice comes out rough. “Are you—“
“I’m okay.” She doesn’t sound okay. She sounds like she’s about to collapse. But her hand finds mine, squeezing weakly. “Did it work? The evidence—“
I look up.
The evidence display hovers above us, glowing brighter than ever.
Every piece of documentation, every corruption signature, every damning connection—not just intact but enhanced.
Lyanna’s purification didn’t just protect the evidence.
It strengthened it, burning away any ambiguity and leaving only undeniable truth.
Around the throne room, I take stock of the aftermath. Crystal pillars cracked and leaning. Entire sections of balcony collapsed into rubble. Scorch marks from dragon fire blackening ancient walls. The once-pristine fae architecture looks like a warzone.
But the people survived.
Ben stands near the evidence display, blood streaming from a gash on his temple, his expression unreadable as he surveys the damage.
Derek coordinates with fae guards near the eastern corridor, directing the last of the evacuation.
Rhonan and Evren have shifted back to human form, both breathing hard, smoke still curling from Evren’s lips.
Rafe lowers his barrier spells with visible relief, his centuries-old face showing more exhaustion than I’ve ever seen.
The tribunal members huddle in a tight cluster near the platform—the corrupted three looking shell-shocked, the uncorrupted two already examining the enhanced evidence with grim determination.
Lord Theron hasn’t moved from his position near the tribunal platform. He stares at the space where Faelan’s portal closed, his expression hollow. Another victim finally seeing the full scope of his manipulation.
Faelan escaped. That truth sits bitter in my throat. After everything—the battle, the evidence, Lyanna nearly killing herself to purify his attack—the bastard still got away.
But the evidence remains. Brighter than ever. Undeniable.
And every supernatural court in every realm will know exactly what he’s done.