Chapter 36
MORGAN
Three days had passed since Seryth had finally pried my severed hand from the blade's hilt, and in that time, the underground settlement had started to feel less like a refuge and more like another cage, its stone walls pressing in with the same unyielding weight as the warehouse back in my world.
The process had been agonizingly slow, a series of rituals that dragged out over hours in her chamber, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs and the low chant of words I didn't understand but felt humming through my bones.
She'd isolated the hand in a circle of glowing crystals, their light pulsing in rhythms that made my skin crawl, and when she'd finally coaxed the fingers open, it had been with a surge of energy that ripped through me like an echo of the original pain, fire racing up my arm even though the stump was wrapped and sealed.
The blade had resisted at first, that trapped entity inside thrashing against the separation, but Seryth's steady hands had held, weaving threads of power that forced the release.
My hand lay free now, preserved in a stasis field on her workbench, fingers lax and lifeless, while Virelya rested nearby, its metal surface dull and unassuming, as if the horror it contained had never happened.
But it had happened, and the aftermath lingered in every breath I took, every glance at the empty space where my hand should have been.
Seryth had explained the delay in reattachment with that calm, measured tone of hers, saying the tissue needed time to "realign" after the blade's influence, that rushing it could corrupt the healing, twist the nerves into something wrong or bind me back to the entity in ways we couldn't predict.
Three days, she'd said, to prepare the essence threads, to ensure the connection would take without rejection.
It made sense in the abstract, her words laced with the confidence of someone who'd mended worse, but to me, it felt like stalling, another stretch of waiting in a life that had become nothing but endurance.
The rune I had carved into my arm helped.
It kept the weakness at bay, but it couldn't touch the deeper ache, the frustration that had been building like pressure in a sealed chamber, ready to burst.
Xavian had been there through it all, hovering at the edges of Seryth's chamber during the rituals, his presence a steady shadow that both reassured and infuriated me.
He'd watched with that intense focus of his, eyes dark and unreadable, but I'd caught the flickers—guilt in the way his jaw tightened when Seryth worked, protectiveness in how he'd positioned himself between me and the door, as if expecting trouble to spill in at any moment.
In the days since, he'd stayed close, helping with the small things without asking, his hands careful when he adjusted my bandages or passed me food.
There was a gentleness in it that clashed with the man I'd first known, the one who'd dragged me into this nightmare, and it stirred things in me I didn't want to name, a reluctant softening that warred with the anger simmering beneath.
Pity had come first, back when we'd arrived and I'd seen the ruins of his world, the people driven underground by his sister's reach, but that had faded fast, burned away by the reality of my loss, the way everything circled back to his choices, his curse, his blade.
By the third evening, as we sat in the small alcove assigned to us—a narrow space carved into the cavern wall, lit by a single glowing orb that floated near the ceiling—the frustration finally boiled over.
The settlement had quieted for the night, the hum of activity giving way to muffled conversations and the distant drip of water echoing through the tunnels.
Xavian was across from me, sharpening his dagger with slow, methodical strokes, the sound scraping against the stone like nails on my nerves.
I'd been staring at my stump, flexing the muscles in my forearm experimentally, feeling the phantom twitch of fingers that weren't there, and the weight of it all crashed down at once—the pain, the waiting, the endless dependence on him and this place.
"This is bullshit," I said, my voice sharper than I'd intended, breaking the quiet like a crack in ice.
I looked up at him, anger rising hot and unfiltered, fueled by the days of holding it in.
"Three days, Xavian. Three days of sitting here while Seryth pokes at my hand like it's some experiment, and you just..
. what? Accept it? You dragged me into this world, promised help, and now we're holed up underground like rats, waiting for your sister to find us.
And it's all because of you. Your curse, your blade, your family mess.
I lost my hand because you pushed me to touch that thing, and now I'm supposed to just trust that it'll all work out? "
He paused in his sharpening, the dagger stilling in his hand, but he didn't look surprised, his eyes meeting mine with that steady intensity that always made me feel seen and challenged in equal measure.
"Seryth knows what she's doing," he replied, his tone even, though I caught the edge beneath it, a controlled tension that said I'd hit a nerve.
"Rushing this could make it worse. We've waited this long; a few more days won't kill us.
And as for the rest... I didn't force you to touch it.
You agreed. We both thought it would reveal something.
And… it did, remember? Blame me if it helps, but don't pretend you weren't part of it. "
His words ignited the spark, anger flaring brighter because he was right, in a way—I had agreed, curious and reckless after the runes had woken something in me—but that didn't erase his role, the way he'd set the stage, pulled me into his orbit from the start.
I pushed up from the bench, ignoring the twinge in my arm, closing the small distance between us until I was standing over him, my voice rising with the frustration I'd bottled for too long.
"Agreed? Under what terms, Xavian? You kidnapped me, locked me in that warehouse, interrogated me with your vague questions about dreams and shimmers in the air!
You needed me to quiet your curse, to be your stabilizer, and I went along because what choice did I have?
Fight you and die? Run and get caught? This whole thing is on you—from the alley to this underground hole.
You cut off my hand! To save me, sure, but it wouldn't have been necessary if you hadn't pushed, hadn't kept me in the dark about how dangerous it really was.
And now? We're here, in your ruined world, waiting while your sister's shadow looms, and you still hold back, still control every step like I'm just along for the fucking ride! "
He set the dagger aside slowly, rising to his feet in a fluid motion that brought him close, too close, our bodies inches apart in the narrow alcove, the air between us thickening with the heat of the argument.
His eyes darkened, not with the blade's shadows but with his own frustration, mirroring mine, his voice dropping to a low growl that vibrated through the space.
"You think I wanted this? Any of it? I dragged you off the street because you were the first thing that quieted the blade, gave me a chance to think without the whispers tearing at me.
But don't act like you're the only one suffering.
I've lost everything—my home, my family, my life—to this curse, and you.
.. you touch it once and unravel secrets I've carried blindly for years.
You blame me for pushing? Fine. But you've adapted, Morgan.
Stronger than I expected, carving runes into your own skin, surviving what should have killed you.
This isn't just my mess anymore—it's ours.
And if you want out, say it. But surviving means trusting me, at least until we fix what we can. "
The words stung, hitting at the core of my anger, because he wasn't wrong.
I had adapted, had found strength in the runes, in this strange power waking inside me.
But that didn't erase the control he still held, the way every decision funneled through him, leaving me reactive, dependent.
I stepped closer, eliminating the space, my chest brushing his as I looked up, my voice fierce and unyielding, the heat of him amplifying everything, turning frustration into something sharper, more electric.
"Trust you? After everything? You talk about our mess, but it's always on your terms—your plans, your secrets, your world.
I'm not some tool to quiet your curse or unlock your blade's mysteries.
I had a life before this, Xavian, one you ripped me from, and now I'm here, missing a hand, running from shadows I don't even understand because you decided I was part of it.
If this is ours, then stop controlling it.
Stop holding back. Or is that too much to ask from the exiled guardian who can't even face his own sister's betrayal without dragging someone else into the fire? "
His breath caught, eyes flashing with a mix of anger and something deeper, raw and unguarded, and he didn't back away, his body tensing against mine, the proximity turning the air thick, charged with an intensity that shifted the argument's edge.
His hand came up, fingers gripping my chin firmly, tilting my face to his, not gentle but insistent, holding me there as his gaze bored into mine, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my lips, the subtle tremor in his touch that spoke of restraint fraying at the edges.
"You think I don't face it? Every day, Morgan, I face it—the hunger, the blackouts, the years of scraping by while she twists everything I knew.
But you... you've changed it, woken things I didn't know were there, and yeah, that scares me.
Scares me because losing control means losing you too, and I can't... I won't let that happen.
" His voice dropped lower, rough with the emotion bleeding through, his thumb brushing my jaw in a way that sent heat racing across my skin, the anger between us twisting into something feral, dangerous, pulling us closer even as it burned.
I didn't pull away, couldn't, my body responding despite the fury, leaning into his grip, the heat of him igniting sparks that had nothing to do with argument.
My good hand came up, fisting in his shirt, not pushing but holding, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under my palm, matching mine.
The space between us vanished, his face inches from mine, breath mingling, the tension coiling tighter, electric and raw, anger bleeding into a hunger that mirrored the blade's but felt achingly human.
His other hand slid to my waist, fingers digging in just enough to anchor, to claim, pulling me flush against him, the contact sending a shiver through me that had no name, feral and unrestrained, teetering on the edge of something we both knew but wouldn't voice.
His eyes darkened, not with shadows but with intent, lips hovering near mine, the air thick with the promise of it, restraint cracking under the weight.
But then it happened—a subtle shift in him, a flicker in his eyes that wasn't desire but something colder, darker.
Shadows stirred there, faint but unmistakable, veins threading black under his skin for a heartbeat before fading, the blade's silence fracturing at last. I felt it too, a brush against my senses, whispers not in my ears but in my mind, faint and insidious, hunger stirring like a beast waking from slumber.
The moment shattered, Xavian pulling back sharply, his grip releasing as if burned, eyes widening with alarm that mirrored my own sudden fear.
We stood there, breaths ragged, the almost-intimacy hanging unresolved, charged with what we'd nearly crossed into, but the blade's return loomed larger, a reminder that some lines couldn't be breached without cost.