Chapter 30 A Lover’s Folly #2
But I was already gone, running through corridors that seemed to stretch endless before me. The healers' quarter was on the far side of the palace, connected by a maze of passages I'd avoided for months.
She wasn't there either.
The rooms stood empty, cold braziers and covered instruments speaking of a space abandoned for the night. But there was something else. A metallic scent in the air that raised every alarm in my body.
Blood.
Not the clean, clinical smell of healing work. This was different. Fresher. More violent.
I knew where she was.
The knowledge drove the air from my lungs. There was only one place in this palace where blood flowed freely in the name of healing. One room I'd sworn never to enter again.
The birthing chamber where my mother had died.
My feet carried me through passages I hadn't walked in centuries. Each step felt like walking through quicksand, each breath harder than the last. The walls seemed to close in around me as memories I'd buried deep fought their way to the surface.
I'd sealed that room afterward. Locked it away with all the guilt and grief I couldn't bear to carry.
But locks meant nothing to Gryven. And apparently, they meant nothing to whatever desperation had driven Miralyte there.
The door stood ajar.
Golden light spilled through the crack, warm and inviting. But the smell of blood was stronger here, thick enough to taste on my tongue.
I pushed the door open.
The sight that greeted me drove me to my knees.
Miralyte lay on the same table where my mother had died, in the exact position I'd tried so hard to forget. Her chest had been opened like a flower, ribs spread wide to expose her heart. Golden blood pooled beneath her, dripping steadily onto the stone floor.
Her skin had lost all color. Her breathing was so shallow I could barely detect it.
Varlath stood over her with instruments I didn't want to identify, his hands stained to the wrists with gold. He looked up as I entered, and there was no guilt in his expression. Only triumph.
"My lord!" His voice carried a manic edge. "You're just in time. The extraction is almost complete. Do you realize what this means? Pure sunfire blood, enough to cure the rot in dozens of victims. Think of the lives we could save!"
Rage exploded through me like wildfire. The storm outside responded instantly, lightning fracturing the sky as thunder shook the palace walls.
"Bring her back," I said, my voice barely recognizable even to myself.
Varlath blinked. "My lord?"
"Bring. Her. Back." Each word came out harder than the last. "Now."
He shook his head, gesturing to the blood he'd collected. "My lord, I'm afraid that's impossible. She's lost too much blood already. But think of what we've gained—"
I moved without conscious thought.
My hand closed around his throat, lifting him from the ground as easily as picking up a child. His eyes bulged as he clawed at my fingers.
"I said bring her back."
"I... can't..." he wheezed. "She's already gone."
The admission shattered something inside me. I released him, and he crumpled to the floor, gasping. But my attention was already back on Miralyte's still form.
Too late. I was too late.
The rage that had been building in my chest transformed into something deeper, more devastating. Grief so profound it felt like drowning. Like being crushed under the weight of every failure, every moment of hesitation that had led to this.
I knelt beside the table, gathering her cooling body against my chest. Golden blood stained my clothes, my hands, everything I touched.
Behind me, Varlath was saying something about the greater good, about sacrifices for the realm. The words buzzed around me like insects.
I silenced him with a gesture. His voice cut off mid-sentence as his throat simply ceased to function. He collapsed, eyes wide with terror, hands clawing at his neck as he suffocated on his own inability to breathe.
I didn't watch him die. All my attention was on the woman in my arms.
"Mira," I whispered, her name a prayer and a plea. "Come back to me."
But there was no response. No flutter of eyelashes or hitch in breathing. Just the terrible stillness of death.
Desperation clawed at my throat. I pressed my hands against her opened chest, willing my own life force into her still heart. But fae magic couldn't reverse death. It could preserve, enhance, corrupt, but it couldn't restore what had already been lost.
I tried anyway.
Power poured from me in waves, crackling through the air like visible lightning. The storm outside intensified, rain lashing the windows as wind howled through the palace walls. I gave everything I had, every drop of magic, every ounce of strength.
Nothing.
Finally, when I had nothing left to give, I looked up at the ceiling and spoke in the old tongue. The words felt rusty on my lips, unused for centuries.
Morwyn tel'Quessir, sina sila amin. Mother of the Firstborn, hear me now. Una sinta en ala ten' lle. Mira ten' rashwe. Estelio nin, Morwyn. She is not finished with her path. Not yet ready for the journey. Have mercy on me, Mother.
The ancient words hung in the air like smoke, carrying all the weight of my grief and rage. But the ceiling gave no answer. The Mother, if she still listened to the prayers of her wayward children, remained as silent as the woman in my arms.
I'd failed her.
Failed to protect what mattered most. Failed to prevent the very tragedy that had haunted my nightmares for centuries. My mother, dying in this same room. Miralyte, following the same cursed path.
Time lost all meaning. I knelt there holding the one person who'd broken through centuries of careful isolation. The tears that fell onto her still face burned like acid.
Then something changed.
The golden blood pooled beneath her began to glow. Not the dim luminescence I'd grown used to, but something fierce and alive. It pulsed like a heartbeat, each throb sending ripples of light across the stone floor.
I watched in stunned silence as the blood moved. Not flowing randomly, but gathering itself. Drawing back toward her body with purpose that defied every law of nature I knew.
The gaping wound in her chest began to close.
Not the slow knitting of flesh that healing magic produced, but something instantaneous and impossible. Skin sealed itself without scars. Ribs reformed with audible clicks. Her heart, visible through the torn cavity moments before, disappeared behind walls of restored muscle and bone.
The transformation spread outward. Color flooded back into her pale cheeks. The blue tinge around her lips faded to healthy pink. Even her hair seemed to brighten, golden strands catching candlelight that shouldn't have been able to penetrate the darkness.
Then her chest rose.
Fell.
Rose again.