Chapter 23
MORGAN
The pain was a deep, throbbing heat that radiated from the stump of my wrist and up my arm, settling into my shoulder like a weight I couldn't shrug off.
It wasn't the sharp, screaming agony from before, when everything had blurred into fire and whispers, but a dull burn that pulsed with every heartbeat, reminding me of what was missing.
I lay on the cot, staring at the cracked ceiling of the warehouse room, the lantern's dim light casting uneven shadows that danced like mocking ghosts.
My body felt heavy, drained, as if the blood I'd lost had taken more than just fluid—it had sapped my strength, leaving me weak and shaky, my breaths shallow and labored.
The bandages wrapped tight around the end of my arm were stained with faint red spots, but they held, sealed by those glowing runes he'd traced into them.
I could still feel their warmth, a strange, tingling heat that kept the wound from unraveling further, though it did nothing for the phantom sensations, the way my missing fingers itched or twitched in my mind, as if they were still there, still mine.
I shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at the injury, and memories from the hazy drifts surfaced unbidden.
He'd been there through it all, Xavian, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos of pain and fever.
I remembered the cool cloth on my forehead, the way he'd wiped away sweat and blood with careful strokes, his fingers rough but restrained, never pressing too hard even when I thrashed weakly.
The cup of water lifted to my lips, his hand supporting my head so I could sip without choking, his voice murmuring low instructions to breathe, to stay with him.
There had been a tenderness in those moments, hidden under his usual gruff focus, like he was handling something fragile, something he feared breaking further.
It sat uneasily in my mind now, that care, clashing with the man who'd kidnapped me, tested me, pushed me to touch that cursed blade.
How could the same hands that had severed part of me also tend to what remained with such quiet attention?
It stirred confusion in me, anger tangled with an unwilling gratitude, making my chest tighten as I lay there, waiting for him to return.
The door creaked open then, pulling me from the haze, and there he was, stepping inside with that tense urgency I'd come to recognize, his coat still damp from whatever he'd been doing outside.
His eyes found mine immediately, scanning my face, my bandaged arm, as if assessing how much I'd faded since he left.
He looked worn, shadows under his eyes deeper than before, his movements sharp, like he was carrying news that weighed on him.
The room felt smaller with him in it, the air thicker, and I pushed myself up on my good elbow, ignoring the fresh wave of dizziness that washed over me.
Weakness tugged at my edges, but my mind was clearer now, the fever broken enough to think, to speak without the words slurring into nonsense.
"You're awake," he said, his voice low and rough, crossing the space to kneel beside the cot.
He reached out, almost instinctively, to check the bandages, his fingers brushing the edge of the wrapping with that same restrained care I'd remembered.
Up close, I could see the strain in his face, the way his jaw clenched, holding back whatever storm brewed inside him. "How's the pain? Can you move it?"
I swallowed hard, my throat dry, but I met his gaze steadily, pushing down the flicker of vulnerability that threatened to surface.
"It hurts like hell, but I'm not drifting anymore.
Listen, before you start poking at it again.
.. you weren't wrong about making me touch the blade.
We did learn something. Or I did, anyway. "
He paused, his hand stilling on the bandage, eyes narrowing with a mix of surprise and that intense focus he got when chasing answers.
"What do you mean? You were burning up, screaming like you were being shredded apart from the inside.
The surge nearly killed you. What could you have learned from that? "
I took a shaky breath, the memories of it flooding back in fragments, sharp and overwhelming even now.
The fire in my veins, the whispers turning to roars, the sense of being pulled into something vast and enclosed.
I didn't understand all of it, couldn't piece it together into a neat picture, but the core of it had burned itself into me, a truth I couldn't shake.
"I don't get it fully, okay? It was all broken up, like shards of things that weren't mine smashing into my head.
Memories, sensations, voices. But the blade.
.. it's not what you think. Or not just a cursed sword.
It's a prison, Xavian. There's something inside it, trapped, bound up in the metal.
An entity, or whatever you want to call it.
That's what you've been feeding all this time, not the blade itself.
The blade's just holding it in, containing its power.
When I touched it, it... it reached out, pulled me in, like I was inside the prison with it.
I felt its hunger, its grief, old and violent.
Rituals, blood, fire—binding it down, forcing it into that form.
I don't know what it is exactly, or why, but it's real, and it's starving in there. "
His expression shifted, shock rippling across his features, raw and unguarded, his eyes widening as he processed my words.
He leaned in closer, his hand gripping my shoulder now, not hard but insistent, urgency flooding his voice.
"A prison? What do you mean, an entity? Tell me everything— the memories, the voices.
What did they say? Did you see how it was bound? Who—"
He cut himself off abruptly, his head snapping toward the door as if hearing something I couldn't, his body tensing like a wire pulled taut.
The shift was sudden, his focus fracturing from the revelation to whatever loomed outside, and when he looked back at me, his eyes were dark with a new edge, protective and fierce.
"Damn it. We're out of time. That surge, it tore through the Shardline like a signal flare.
Someone came through already, one of Nyra's dogs, scouting.
I sent him back, but he'll report, and more will follow.
Fast. The wards won't hold them off for long. We can't stay here."
I stared at him, my mind reeling from the whiplash, the pain in my arm flaring as I tried to sit up further, weakness making my vision swim.
"What? Now? Xavian, I can barely move. This.
.. this thing just happened. You cut off my hand, and now you're saying we have to run?
To your world? I thought we had time, that I'd heal or something. I still don’t even know who the fuck Nyra is! "
He shook his head, his grip on my shoulder steadying me, but his voice was blunt, no room for argument.
"We don't. That ripple drew them right to us.
If we stay, they'll tear this place open, take you, dissect whatever tie you have to the blade.
And me... they'll finish what the exile started.
We cross now, or we die here. The Shardline's thin spot is close, an old abandoned churchyard not far.
But it's not exactly safe. The crossing could kill us both in your state—rip you apart if you're too weak.
But staying? That's certain death. They'll be here by tomorrow, maybe sooner. "
Fear coiled in my gut, mixing with exhaustion and the pain throbbing from my wrist. The memories from the blade lingered, fragments of fire and binding that made his world feel even more terrifying, a place of rituals and magical prisons where things like that entity were forged and contained.
And now he wanted to drag me there, weak and feverish, with enemies on our heels.
It sounded insane, impossible, my body screaming that I couldn't even stand, let alone flee through some magical veil.
But his eyes held mine, urgent and dark, that protective edge sharper than I'd seen, like he was bracing for the worst but refusing to leave me behind.
It clashed with the care I'd remembered, the way he'd tended me through the drifts, gentle in his roughness, making this moment feel heavier, more tangled.
He wasn't just saving himself; he was pulling me with him, into the unknown, and that unwilling trust flickered in me despite everything.
I swallowed hard, pain and fear making my voice shaky but sharp.
"You're serious. Cross now and maybe die, or just die.
That's the choice? God, Xavian, I feel like I'm already halfway gone.
But if they're coming... if staying means…” I trailed off, the reality sinking in.
No good options, only survival scraping by on whatever we had left.
Weakness tugged at me, but I met his gaze, dry resolve pushing through. "I guess we go. Even if it kills us."
He nodded once, the tension in his face easing just a fraction, though the urgency remained, his hand lingering on my shoulder before he helped me up, careful but insistent, the decision sealing us to the run toward a world I still barely understood, with pain and shadows chasing us every step.