Chapter 26
MORGAN
Xavian stood there for a long moment, his eyes locked on the glowing lines in my skin, the faint blue light reflecting in his gaze like distant stars.
I could see the calculations shifting behind those eyes, the way his mind recalibrated everything in an instant, but there was something else too—a stillness about him that hadn't been there before.
No shadows lingered under his eyes quite as deeply, no tension coiled in his shoulders like a spring ready to snap.
He moved with a steadiness that bordered on calm, his breaths even, his voice lacking that rough edge of constant strain.
It was subtle, but after weeks of watching him fray at the edges, haunted by whispers only he could hear, the change stood out like a crack in a mirror.
I flexed my left hand again, feeling the subtle rush of energy from the rune coursing through me, steadying my limbs and pushing back the exhaustion that had threatened to pull me under.
It wasn't a full recovery—my stump still ached with a shallow, insistent burn, and weakness tugged at the edges of my movements—but it was enough to keep me on my feet, to make me feel like I had some control in this chaos.
Xavian finally nodded, breaking the silence with a low grunt of acknowledgment, but he didn't press for more details right away.
Instead, he turned to gather the few supplies we'd need, stuffing a small pack with the preserved herbs, a water flask, and the wrapped bundle that held.
.. well, the blade and what was left of my hand.
The sight of it made my stomach twist, but I forced myself to look away, focusing on him instead.
That's when it really hit me, the oddity of his composure.
"You've been... different since I woke up," I said, my voice steadier than I'd expected, though laced with the skepticism that had become my shield in all this.
"Quieter. Not just you—the blade. I haven't heard you muttering about whispers or fighting off whatever it does to you.
It's like everything went still after... after what happened."
He paused in his packing, his back to me for a second before he turned, the bundle in his hands.
His expression was guarded, but there was no denial in it, just a flicker of unease that mirrored the one growing in my chest. "I've noticed," he admitted, his tone low and measured, though I caught the undercurrent of wariness, like admitting it made it more real.
"The hunger's gone completely quiet again, no demands, no blackouts creeping in.
It's been that way since the surge, since.
.." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the bundle, where my severed hand still gripped the hilt in that frozen preservation.
"Since this. I've been turning it over in my head, wondering if that's the key.
Your hand still holding on, like it's bridging something, keeping it contained or... satisfied. I don’t know. This is all new to me."
The words settled over me like a chill, unsettling in their simplicity, because they echoed the thoughts I'd been pushing down since I first woke.
My hand, detached and lifeless, but still connected to that cursed metal, as if part of me was trapped there, feeding the silence.
It made my skin crawl, the idea that even in separation, I was tied to it, my flesh acting as some kind of anchor or pacifier for the thing inside.
"That's... creepy as fuck," I muttered, rubbing my good arm where the rune hummed faintly, a reminder that I'd already marked myself in ways I couldn't undo. "You think my hand is what's keeping it quiet? Like it's... feeding off that instead of you?"
Xavian set the bundle down carefully, as if handling something volatile, and met my eyes again, the unease plain now, no mask to hide it.
"I don't know. The blade's never been like this, not in all the years I've carried it.
No whispers, no pull for essence—it's like it's dormant, watching.
Your hand gripping it... it could be stabilizing the bond, or changing it.
But it's not comforting, Morgan. It's a unknown, and unknowns get people killed.
We can't rely on it holding once we cross; the Shardline might shatter whatever balance this created. "
His admission hung there, making the room feel colder, the silence around the blade not a relief anymore but a lurking threat.
It twisted in my gut, the idea that part of me was sustaining this quiet, my severed flesh a unwitting sacrifice to whatever entity thrashed inside.
There was no comfort in it, just a deepening sense of wrongness, as if we'd stumbled into a temporary truce with something that could turn on us at any moment.
I nodded, swallowing the unease, because dwelling on it wouldn't change what came next.
"Great. So we're walking into your world with a ticking bomb and no idea when it goes off. Just another day in paradise."
He didn't smile, but there was a faint acknowledgment in his eyes, a shared recognition of the absurdity, before he shouldered the pack and extended his hand to help me up.
"We move now. The thin spot's not far, but we can't risk delay.
The crossing... it's going to be rough. My power's too weak here to make it smooth. Yours is clearly stronger, but unpredictable. I’ll have to hold you as we go through.
Whatever you are, whatever tie you have to the blade, distance might make it unstable. We go together, or not at all."
I hesitated, but there was no time to argue.
My body was steadier thanks to the rune, but the crossing sounded like forcing a door that didn't want to open.
"Fine," I said, taking his hand and letting him pull me to my feet, the contact brief but enough to steady me as dizziness flickered at the edges.
"But if this goes sideways, I'm blaming you. "
We stepped out into the night, the rain a light mist that clung to my skin, cooling the feverish heat still lingering in my cheeks.
Xavian moved with purpose, leading us toward an old churchyard a few blocks away, its spire a dark silhouette against the cloudy sky.
He carried the blade carefully, bundled in cloth, and I walked beside him, my steps firmer than they'd been in hours, the rune on my arm pulsing silently.
As we drew closer, he slowed, turning to me with that intense focus, and before I could protest, he pulled me against him, one arm wrapping around my waist to hold me secure, the other clutching the bundle.
The closeness hit me all at once, unavoidable and overwhelming in the worst possible moment.
His body was solid against mine, warm through the layers of our clothes, the strength in his arm unyielding as it pressed me to his side, steadying me even as it trapped me there.
I could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of him—rain-soaked wool mixed with something earthier, like smoke and metal, clinging to his skin.
His breath brushed my hair, steady and controlled, and up close like this, without the dark aura that had shadowed him before, he felt achingly human, the rough stubble on his jaw grazing my temple as he adjusted his hold.
It was physical, immediate, the way his muscles shifted under my good hand where it rested on his shoulder for balance, the heat of him seeping through to chase away the night's chill.
Attraction sparked once again, unwanted, a flush rising in my cheeks that had nothing to do with fever.
Absolutely not, I thought, panic edging in because this was the worst time for it— injured, terrified, about to be shoved through a magical threshold into a world I barely understood, with enemies on our heels and my hand literally severed by the man holding me.
I couldn't be noticing the strength in his grip, the way it felt protective rather than confining, or the warmth in his scent that made him seem less like a monster and more like someone I might have wanted to know in another life.
It was absurd, dangerous, my mind screaming to focus on survival, not this unwelcome pull, but the closeness amplified it, turning every shift of his body against mine into a distraction I couldn't afford.
He didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he masked it, his focus on the yard ahead as he guided us through the rusted gate, the overgrown path crunching under our feet.
"Hold tight," he murmured, his voice low near my ear, sending an involuntary shiver through me that I hoped he attributed to the cold.
"The rift will open when I drive the blade through.
It'll feel like falling, like the world inverting. Don't let go."
We reached the center of the yard, a weathered stone altar cracked with age, and he positioned us there, his arm tightening around me as he unwrapped the bundle just enough to expose the blade's tip, my severed hand still gripping the hilt below the fabric folds.
The thought twisted my stomach again, but there was no time to dwell.
He raised it, channeling something I could feel humming through him, a vibration that passed into me where our bodies pressed together, amplifying the rune on my arm until it glowed brighter.
The air around us thickened, distorting like heat rising from pavement, and with a sharp thrust, he drove the blade into the altar's stone.
The world shattered.
A tear opened before us, not a neat doorway but a ragged wound in reality, edges flickering with unstable light that pulled at the air, sucking in leaves and mist like a vortex.
Falling, yes, but more— the ground tilted, gravity shifting as colors inverted, the night sky bleeding into daylight hues that didn't belong.
I gripped him tighter, my good arm wrapping around his neck, my body pressed flush against his as the rift yanked us forward, the intimacy forgotten in the terror of it.
His strength held us, but the crossing clawed at me, unstable and wild, the world falling away in fragments as we tumbled into the unknown, clinging to each other as everything dissolved.