34. Thirty-Four
Thirty-Four
Callan’s knees gave out under the weight of Fawn’s magic, his shoulders shuddering with the effort of holding it at bay.
Some of the lesser Nobles hadn’t withstood the unceasing assault; screams rang out from further down the line, the smell of singed fabric and flesh flooding his nostrils.
Sweat poured down his forehead as he roared through clenched teeth, desperate to protect however many he could for as long as he could behind his wall of ice.
Lycane and yaesira slipped through breaches in the shield wall, decimated by Fawn’s black liquid flame.
Callan held fast despite the sounds of the battle carrying on around him: growls, wails, and the grisly, wet smack of steel meeting flesh.
Time slowed, his awareness narrowing down to the weariness settling in his bones, the burn ravaging his muscles. Bit by bit, he was losing the fight. How long until he drained himself entirely? Until his magic consumed every last shred of his life force?
Brumal, I beg: Let me live long enough to see Nova safe.
The thought of his mate filled him with renewed energy.
Drawing from a deep well of strength, he poured it into his magic.
Remarkably, Fawn’s magic drew back—just enough to allow him to adjust his stance, to stand taller.
The swirling blue haze clouded his vision, but the shouts of the Aemorian forces, tentative but optimistic, bolstered him.
Gave him hope that he and the other Nobles had made progress.
Fawn.
A heaviness took root in Callan’s chest, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and mixing with the sweat beading down his face.
He set his jaw, steeling himself against the notion that any ground gained was ground ceded by his cousin.
Her power retreated further, his own surging forth with the sudden loss of resistance.
He called her name again, the cry scraping along his throat.
All at once, Fawn’s magic was gone. She was gone.
Callan dropped his hands, doubling over and bracing himself on his knees, nearly succumbing to exhaustion, heavy and bone-deep.
When, at last, the haze faded from his vision, he rose to his full height.
The Nivalian warriors still held the shield wall, though a glance to the left and right confirmed what he’d feared.
Some had been unable to withstand the punishing force of Fawn’s gift.
Wide sections of the barrier smoldered in the sand, reduced to embers and allowing beasts and mercenaries alike to pass through.
Callan scrubbed a sleeve over his face and peered through a gap in the wall, surveying the open expanse of desert before him.
There, he spied his cousin’s crumpled form upon the ground.
The Enchanted swarmed in from both sides, blocking Fawn’s body from view.
The enemy moved as one, a rippling, ashen wave spilling across the sand.
With a roar, Callan unsheathed his sword, the tip of his blade pointed toward the sky. If the enemy was an unrelenting wave, he would be a boulder upon the shore; let them see how long they’d have to batter him before he’d break.
When the Enchanted drew near enough for him to see the glint of sunlight in their black, lifeless eyes, Callan shouted a final command to fight.
Propelled by the senseless loss of his cousin, he shoved his way along the line through what remained of the Aemorian forces.
The Enchanted struck the shield wall to his right, but he wouldn’t be hiding behind it.
Callan sprinted for the nearest opening and burst onto the battlefield, meeting the enemy head-on.
His consciousness drifted away from him, abandoning him entirely as he swung his sword in a wide arc, beheading one of the Enchanted before burying his blade in the chest of another.
Bodies fell before him as he pushed through the enemy ranks, a trail of carnage collecting in his wake, his blade stained with the slick, black liquid oozing from their wounds.
It wasn’t the first time the mindless state consumed him in battle.
Whether a gift from Brumal, helping him vanquish his enemies, or his own mind protecting him from the full awareness of the violence he inflicted, he cared not.
His rage carried him through the swarm, cutting down anyone in his path.
One of the Enchanted charged him. Once a burly Nivalian from the look of him, his tree-trunk legs ate up the distance between to Callan with unnatural speed. Callan raised his sword and prepared to separate the enemy from his head.
When the warrior was only a few strides away, pain pierced Callan’s chest, halting his breath and sending him to his knees.
Crouched on the ground, a moment passed while he choked on air, fingers digging into the sand.
When the pain ebbed to a dull ache, Callan sat back on his heels, looking down as his hands roamed over his body.
There was no blade. No arrow. Nothing marring the chest plate of thick brown leather.
Wide-eyed, Callan took in the battlefield around him. The Enchanted no longer attacked from every direction. Bodies littered the ground, but not all were dead. Folk from every Court lay in the sand, weak and disoriented, but enchanted no more. Restored to their former selves.
Celebratory shouts filled the air, faraway at first, but soon, the Aemorian forces crowded around him, embracing one another and beginning to tend to the folk who had been imprisoned by Omen’s thrall.
Callan rose to his feet, absently turning in a slow circle.
Tilting his face to the sky, he searched for the repera and found the great beasts reduced to flecks of black against pale blue as they fled.
Lycane and yaesira disappeared over the horizon in the distance, returning to whatever dark dens they called home.
A smile crept across his face. They had won.
He whirled around, racing past the survivors and the fallen toward the bit of higher ground where he’d left Nova, praying she was safe.
The dull ache over his heart spread through his chest as he ran, and he halted at the base of the dune, shoulders heaving as he tugged at the collar of his chest plate.
Glancing ahead, he found Riven approaching.
He managed two steps up the incline before he had to stop to catch his breath once more, rubbing his fist over his heart.
“Where . . .” He couldn’t get enough air. “Is she?”
“She’s not here,” Riven said, brows drawn in a pitying expression.
He shook his head and craned his neck to peer over Riven’s shoulder.
“Where is she?”
“We never could have won. Nova saw that.” Riven’s words came soft and slow, as if she were soothing a youngling. “She went to face Omen alone.”
Callan stumbled back a step. Riven caught his elbow, tried to steady him, but he ripped out of her grasp.
“You lie,” he snarled, his voice breaking with the denial. “Bryn would never allow it.”
Shoving past the Wyldling, he ran for higher ground, boots slipping in the dark sand as an icy dread crept along his limbs. His knees gave out when he reached the summit. Frantically, he scanned the horizon, desperately seeking his mate.
Something is wrong.
He fell forward, bracing himself on his hands and gritting his teeth as another stab of pain stole his breath. When the agony passed, he looked up to find something black soaring among the clouds, approaching from the north.
Hauling himself to his feet, Callan sprinted across the sand. When Bryn touched down several strides ahead of him, he collapsed, scrambling on all fours to reach the familiar form of his mate lying motionless on the ground.
Crouching at Nova’s side, Callan cupped her face with trembling hands. She blinked once, her eyes unseeing, her bloodied mouth open as if trying to speak.
“Nova—my love.” Callan’s heart stuttered.
Her cheeks were impossibly pale against the splash of crimson, her lips dry and colorless apart from the blood painting them.
She saw him then. Eyes ringed with silver locked onto his, a weak smile flashing on her face as she curled her fingers around his wrist and squeezed weakly.
“Cal—” His name caught on her tongue, eyes widening as her breath was cut short.
He lowered his hands from her face to her chest, fingertips meeting not the solid metal of a chest plate but the cold, wet fabric of her tunic. Pulling back, he tore his gaze away from her lovely face, finally seeing what his mind had initially hidden from him: Kinslayer buried in her chest.
“No, no, no.” He thrashed his head back and forth. “Find a healer!” His mind raced, sifting through actions and outcomes, but he couldn’t latch onto a single rational thought. He gripped the hilt, eliciting a pained gasp from Nova.
“Don’t!”
Bryn’s shout at his ear startled him from his panic.
“Removing it will take her faster,” she said. “Just be with her.”
Callan glanced at Bryn, grim understanding settling in his bones.
Swallowing hard over the sorrow swelling at the back of his throat, he nodded once.
Taking Nova’s hand, he wove his fingers together with hers, squeezing as though he might keep her in this world if he only held on tight enough.
With his other hand, he smoothed her hair, brushing away the black strands sticking to her forehead.
He wanted to speak, but a tidal wave of grief waited behind his lips, ready to spill out the instant he opened his mouth.
Nova’s gaze flitted about his face before finally settling on his mouth.
“I’m s-sorry.”
Callan shook his head slowly, unable to contain his tears. They tracked down his face and fell onto her blood-soaked tunic.
“Don’t say that,” he murmured, fighting to keep the tremble from his voice. Fighting to be strong for her. “Omen is gone. You saved us all.”
Vaguely, he registered Riven whispering that she would find Nox. The sound of her shift and the beating of her great wings followed.
“Please,” Nova rasped, her gaze going out of focus, as if she were seeing beyond him. “I don’t want to go.”
Tears welled in her unblinking eyes until, swollen, they rolled down her temples. Callan brushed them away, clearing his throat and gathering every shred of his resolve.
“I know, love.” Cupping her cheek, he shushed her gently.
Once more, he swallowed against the lump at the back of his throat: a roar it took all his strength to restrain.
“I will find you—I swear it. If I have to track you clear across the After Realm, I will come home to you, Starlight. I’ll always follow you home. ”
Her eyes focused once more, widening as her mouth fell open in a mask of fear. She gripped his hand, and her back arched, her body fighting against the pull of death briefly before going still.
“Nova.” His voice cracked as he spoke her name.
She lay unmoving, her stony gaze fixed on the sky.
The dam inside him burst, a wail of pure anguish spilling forth.
Taking her into his arms, he sat back on his heels and crushed her to him, her limp body shaking with the force of his sobs.
Their connection, the invisible thread he had always felt passing between them, had gone slack.
Agony at the loss of her—his mate—consumed him, settling into the hollow space behind his ribs, the marrow of his bones.
The world fell away as he clutched her to him.
Bargaining with the gods. Screaming at the sky.
Cursing her father’s name. Only stopping when his voice gave out, his throat raw and his breath ragged.
He thought he’d known pain. Thought he’d carried it with him most of his life.
How foolish he had been. This was pain. The lack of Nova so acute, he was sure his chest would crack open, laying whatever remained of his heart bare for the ravens.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder, gentle and tentative. Though perhaps he should’ve found comfort in the gesture, his rage boiled over, desperate for somewhere to go. He threw his elbow behind him, briefly catching sight of Lucan falling backward onto the sand.
When he faced forward once again, Bryn crouched before him, attempting to pry Nova’s body from his grasp.
“Don’t touch her!” he snarled, voice feral and unrecognizable.
He lunged for Bryn, an arm outstretched, ready to cause harm.
Several sets of hands caught him about the shoulders and hooked under his arms, dragging him backward as he kicked his legs uselessly, stirring up a cloud of black dust. He lay on his back, his oldest friend, Arik, underneath him, an elbow tucked snug under Callan’s chin.
Riven and Lucan each held an arm, pinning him to the ground.
“Breathe, Cal. Breathe.” Arik’s chest heaved beneath Callan’s back, his hold around Callan’s throat tightening.
“Nox,” Lucan shouted. “He won’t calm.”
Nova’s uncle came into view, standing over Callan and blotting out the sun. Nox crouched low, his serene face taking up Callan’s entire field of vision. The Noble Lord laid a hand on Callan’s forehead, his charcoal-colored eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
“Be still, Callan,” Nox murmured. “Be still.”
All at once, the rage threatening to drown him ebbed, a wave receding from the shore.
Callan’s limbs slackened, and he ceased fighting against his friends’ hold on him.
Though the fury had deadened, a profound grief remained, at once both hollow and heavy.
He sagged under the weight of it. His sobs returned, and he realized his friends were no longer restraining him; they were embracing him.
Nova.
She was his only thought as he drifted off into nothingness.