Chapter 27 – Dain
DAIN
Elias lunged forward, catching Quinton before he hit the ground.
“Quinton—” His voice was controlled, but I heard the edge underneath.
Quinton didn’t respond. He went limp in his brother’s arms, head lolling, face pale as death.
Fuck.
I stared at him for half a heartbeat—slumped against Elias, chest barely rising—then forced myself to look away. To focus.
Azaria.
She was still. Too still. But her chest moved. Shallow, weak breaths that barely stirred the air, but alive.
I dropped to my knees beside the cot, fingers finding her pulse.
Thready and faint. I pulled her leathers up and checked the wound on her side.
The tendrils that crawled beneath her skin—those nightmare threads of rot—were gone.
The gash itself was angry, red and raw, but clean. No corruption, no creeping darkness.
He did it.
Fuck knows how, but Quinton pushed the rot out of her blood by sheer force of will and magic, and burned himself out doing it. I glanced back at him. Still unconscious in Elias’s grip, head tipped forward, arms hanging limp.
Second time. Second time he pushed himself past his limits to save her. The first time when she was poisoned, he kept her heart beating for six hours straight. It drained him, but he stayed upright. Stayed conscious. This time was worse. He wasn't just drained—he was gone. Completely under.
Burnout wasn’t something you played with. Push too hard, too often, and your magic didn’t come back. Best case, you lost it, spending the rest of your life empty, hollow, unable to touch the power that once ran through your veins like lifeblood. Worst case, you didn’t wake up at all.
“Dain.”
Elias’s voice cut through my thoughts. He had Quinton propped against his chest, one hand checking his pulse, the other steadying his head.
“He’s alive,” Elias said. “Breathing. But he’s deep under.”
“How deep?”
“Deep enough that I’m worried.” His eyes met mine, calm but unyielding. “He needs rest. Time. And someone watching him in case he doesn’t wake up.”
I nodded once, jaw tight. “Can you?—”
“I’ll look after him,” Elias said before I could finish. “You take Azaria back to Tempest. She needs Myrin. Now.”
He was right. Azaria was breathing, but she wasn’t well. Fever burned beneath her skin; I could feel the heat radiating off her from here. The rot was gone, but whatever damage it did, whatever the fight cost her body—she needed a healer. A real one. Not field medicine and hope.
“All right,” I said, rising. “Get him stable. Find Reyna. Tell her to look for a rejuvenation tonic once he wakes up. Something strong.”
Elias nodded, already shifting Quinton’s weight, lowering him carefully onto the empty space next to Azaria. “Go. I’ve got him.”
I didn’t wait. I scooped Azaria into my arms—she was light, far too light, her body slack and burning—and turned toward the tent flap.
The moment I stepped outside, the squad was there.
All of them. Kael, Reyna, Lirael, Thorne, Lyra, Zephyr.
Faces pale, eyes wide, tension humming in the air like a drawn bowstring.
Reyna moved first, stepping forward, gaze locked on Azaria’s face. “Fuck—is she?—”
“She’s alive,” I said, voice flat, command settling over me like armor. “But barely. We need to get back to Tempest. Now.”
“Where’s Quinton?” Kael asked.
“Unconscious. Burned himself out getting the rot out of her. Elias is with him.”
Lyra’s hand flew to her mouth. Lirael’s eyes went wide. Thorne didn’t move, but his jaw tightened. No time for this.
I turned to Zephyr. “Ride ahead. Alert the palace. Get Myrin ready—tell her we’re bringing Azaria in and she’s in bad shape. Go.”
Zephyr didn’t hesitate. He nodded once, turned, and sprinted for his horse.
I looked at Reyna next. “Quinton’s going to need a rejuvenation tonic when he wakes. Strong one. Find it.”
She nodded, face grim. “Done.”
Then Thorne. “Help me get her on my horse.”
He stepped forward without a word, arms sure as I passed Azaria to him. She was limp, head lolling against his chest, but he held her like she weighed nothing.
I swung into the saddle, then reached down. Thorne lifted her up, and I took her back into my arms, settling her against my chest. Her head fell against my shoulder, breath shallow and hot against my neck. Gods, she was on fire.
I looked back at the others. “Pack up. Get back to the palace as fast as you can. And keep that hound carcass intact—Tywin’s going to want it.”
Kael nodded. Lirael was already moving toward the supplies. Reyna turned back to the tent, heading for Quinton.
Thorne stepped back, meeting my eyes. “Ride safe.”
I didn’t answer. I spurred my mare forward.
The mare flattened her ears when I asked for the pace, but she gave it.
She was the fastest horse in the squad: Tempest-bred, deep-chested, built for speed over distance.
I could feel the power in her stride, the rhythm of her hooves reading the terrain before I did.
She knew the road home. All I had to do was keep Azaria steady and let the horse work.
One arm locked around Azaria’s waist, the other gripping the reins. Her fever burned through her clothes, through mine, soaking into my chest like I was holding a coal. The mare’s ears flicked back every few minutes, checking on the weight, reading the shift in balance as Azaria’s body listed.
Too hot. Way too hot. Her body was still fighting; her immune system flared, burning itself out trying to purge what was already gone. I could feel her temperature rising against my chest. Measured it the only way I could: by how fast my own shirt soaked through with her sweat.
The forest thinned. I pushed the mare harder on the open stretches, eased her on the rocky ground. She was lathering at the neck, but her breathing was even. She had more to give.
My mind wouldn’t stop working.
Quinton’s voice in the tent. “She’s reacting like she has magic.” And Azaria’s body, fighting him—not the rot, but him. Pushing back. Guarding.
Her magic was bound. Sealed tight, locked away so deep it shouldn’t register on anyone’s senses.
But Quinton’s blood magic dug deep. It lived in blood and pulse and breath, closer to the body’s secrets than any diagnostic spell.
If anyone was going to brush against something buried that far down, it would be him.
Perhaps he saw more than he should have.
A dull ache flared behind my sternum: the same one that surfaced in waves lately, without pattern or cause. I pressed it down. Not now. It could wait. Everything could wait except the woman in my arms and the road beneath us.
I thought about what I’d tell Tywin. The ward bypass.
The hounds: twelve of them, coordinated, sent.
Quinton’s diagnosis. The fact that they targeted her specifically.
And Quinton’s words, which I’d have to choose carefully whether to share.
I’d see Tywin as soon as Azaria was safe.
As soon as I could trust my voice to hold.
“Come on, Az,” I muttered, low enough that only she could hear. “Hold on.”
Her head lolled against my shoulder, and for a moment her eyes fluttered open. Glassy. Unfocused. Barely there.
“Dain?” Her voice was a rasp, cracked and thin.
“I’m here,” I said, tightening my grip. “Rest.”
Her brow furrowed, like she was trying to process the words. Trying to stay awake. Then her eyes slipped closed again, and she went limp.
Fuck.
I spurred the mare harder. She responded without complaint—ears forward, stride lengthening, hooves striking the packed road in a clean four-beat. Good horse. The trees thinned. The road widened and the walls of Tempest rose ahead.
Almost there.
The gates were open when we arrived. Guards stood on either side—hands on weapons, eyes hard, tension humming through the courtyard. Zephyr did his job. I pulled the mare to a halt, hooves skidding on stone. Two palace guards moved immediately, reaching up to help steady Azaria as I dismounted.
“Careful,” I snapped, keeping one arm around her as my boots hit the ground. “Don’t jostle her.”
They nodded, stepping back to give me space as I shifted her weight, cradling her against my chest. Then I saw her.
Myrin Tahlis.
Head of the Magical Recovery Ward. Former military healer. And quite possibly the scariest woman in Tempest—right behind Azaria, of course.
She stood on the steps leading into the palace, arms crossed, face carved from stone.
Dark auburn hair pulled back in a severe braid, green eyes cutting enough to strip armor.
She didn’t shout as she approached. Didn’t raise her voice.
She looked at Azaria and frowned, the weight of her magic already pressing into the air.
“Good gods, girl…” she muttered, running her hands over Azaria without touching. The magic swept through: cool, precise, thorough. She recoiled slightly, but I saw it.
“Fever. Dehydration.” She looked at me, eyes hard. “And tell me why the hells she reeks of Abyss.”
“Abyssal hounds,” I said, already moving toward the steps. “Twelve of them. She was infected—rot in her blood.”
Myrin’s eyes flashed. “Was?”
“Quinton pushed it out. Forced purge.”
“He pushed out abyssal rot.” It wasn’t a question—just a flat, disbelieving statement.
“Yes.”
Myrin stopped walking. The silence lasted two full seconds, which, from Myrin, was the equivalent of anyone else falling to their knees.
“That shouldn’t be possible.” Her voice dropped low, precise, the voice she used when something didn’t fit her understanding of the world.
“Abyssal corruption isn’t a toxin you flush.
It bonds to blood. Rewrites it. The only thing that’s ever been able to destroy it is light magic, and your blood mage certainly doesn’t have that.
” Her gaze cut to Azaria’s face, then back to me, something recalculating behind her eyes.
“So either he’s more powerful than anyone in this palace has given him credit for, or something else was at work inside her.
” She held my gaze a beat too long. “Where is he?”
“Unconscious. Burnout.”
She swore a string of colorful words that would have made Reyna proud. “Idiot boy. Second time?”
“Yes.”
“He keeps this up, he won’t have magic left to burn.” She turned on her heel, already moving. “Recovery wing. Now.”
She led us through the palace corridors at a brutal pace, robes billowing behind her. No hesitation. No wasted steps. We reached the recovery wing in minutes. Myrin shoved open the doors, gesturing to one of the beds. “There. Gently.”
I lowered Azaria onto the cot, stepping back as Myrin moved in. Her hands hovered over Azaria’s chest, flaring with magic.
“Rot’s gone,” she murmured, half to herself.
“Tissue damage from the infection, inflammation, immune response in overdrive. Her body’s still fighting like the threat is present.
” She pressed her palm to Azaria’s forehead.
“Fever’s the real problem now. If it doesn’t break, it’ll do more damage than the rot did. ”
“Can you?—”
“Yes,” Myrin said. “I can. But she needs fluids, rest, and about three days of sleep. In that order.” She turned to one of her assistants hovering near the door. “Get me water. Clean linens. And a cooling tonic—the strong one, not the mild shit we give the council.”
The assistant disappeared.
Myrin looked back at me, eyes hard. “You did well getting her here. Now get out. I need space to work, and you need to breathe before you collapse too.”
I didn’t move.
“Dain.” Her voice softened slightly. “She’ll be fine. But I need room.”
I looked down at Azaria. Pale and still, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. She was alive. That had to be enough.
“I’ll be outside,” I said quietly.
Myrin nodded once. “I’ll come find you when she’s stable.”
I turned and walked out, closing the door behind me.
The hallway was empty. Silent. I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, and let myself breathe. The ache in my chest pulsed low and persistent; the same nameless pressure that came and went without reason. I pressed my fist against my sternum and waited for it to pass.
She was alive. Quinton was alive. And I had a report to give Tywin that would change everything.