Chapter 24 Blorjorn
TWENTY-FOUR
BLORJORN
Icatch her before she hits the ground.
Don’t remember turning. Don’t remember crossing the distance. Don’t remember dropping my axes, abandoning Hadrin, turning my back on the battle. One moment, I’m watching the blade bury itself in her side, watching her crumple, and the next I’m on my knees with her body in my arms.
Her blood soaks through my clothes. Hot. Wet. Wrong.
“Kielyne.” Her name tears from my throat. “Kielyne, look at me.”
Her eyes find mine—hazel and gold, already glazing, the light in them fading. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just a wet, rattling breath that sounds like goodbye.
“No.” The word is a growl. A denial. A prayer to gods I stopped believing in a century ago. “No, no, no—”
The blade is still in her side. I wrap my hand around the hilt, yank it free, hurl it across the cathedral with a snarl. But the damage is done—I can see the blight spreading, black veins crawling across her skin, the magic eating at her the way it ate at me.
She’s dying.
She’s dying in my arms, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
The battle rages around us—Grothak’s war cry, the clash of weapons, the screams of the dying. But I can’t hear any of it. Can only hear the wet rattle of her breathing, growing weaker with every second. Can only see her face, pale and bloodless, her eyes locked on mine.
“Stay with me.” I cradle her closer, press my forehead to hers. Her skin is cold. Too cold. “Kielyne, stay with me. Please.”
Her hand lifts—trembling, weak, the effort costing her everything. Her fingers brush my cheek, leaving a smear of blood. Her lips move.
“Worth it.” The words are barely a whisper. “You were... worth it.”
No. No. No.
I’ve lost people before. Lost Glasha, lost Korveth, lost everyone I’ve ever loved. I know what it feels like to hold someone as they slip away, to watch the light leave their eyes, to feel the exact moment when their heart stops and the silence becomes absolute.
I can’t do it again. I won’t survive it.
Not her. Not her.
Her eyes drift closed. Her hand falls from my cheek.
And something inside me shatters.
The scream that tears from my throat isn’t human.
It’s the sound of a soul being torn into pieces—grief, rage, and despair twisted into a single howl that shakes the cathedral to its foundations. The remaining glass shatters outward. Cracks spread across the stone pillars. Somewhere above, ancient masonry groans and shifts.
I hold her against my chest and scream until my voice breaks. Until blood fills my mouth. Until the sound echoes off the vaulted ceiling and comes back to me like a curse.
The battle freezes around us. Orcs and humans alike pause, caught in the wake of that sound. Even the blight soldiers hesitate, their empty gazes turning toward the altar where I kneel with her broken body.
Hadrin watches from a few feet away, his scarred face lit by something that might be satisfaction. His blade found its mark. His trap worked. Even if he dies here, he’s taken something from me that can never be replaced.
He opens his mouth—to gloat, to sneer, to remind me that this is exactly what he promised.
He doesn’t get the chance.
Because in the silence after my scream, I feel the oath mark burning on my arm. Feel the magic that binds me to Kielyne straining against the poison trying to take her.
And I remember what she did for me.
She used the oath. Poured her blood into the bond. Broke my chains by channeling her life force into me.
What flows from her to me can flow from me to her.
The thought is desperate. Insane. I’m not a healer—I don’t know how she did what she did, don’t understand the magic she channeled. I only know that she’s dying, and the oath is the only weapon I have left.
I press my hand over her wound. Let my blood mingle with hers where the blade cut me reaching for the hilt. Close my eyes and reach for the mark on my arm—not with my hands but with my heart.
Take it, I think, pouring everything I have into the oath. Take the poison. Take the pain. Take whatever you need.
Just don’t leave me.