Chapter 88 – Quinton
QUINTON
The horse’s sides were lathered in sweat.
Every pounding step echoed in my skull, but I didn’t slow.
Not when the palace gates rose into view.
Not when the guards scrambled to open them.
Not even when my own magic flickered dangerously low.
All I saw was her. Azaria. Limp. Pale. Her blood on my hands.
I reached the stables at a full gallop and pulled the reins too sharply, vaulting off before the horse had even stopped. My legs nearly gave, but I kept moving—half-stumbling, half-running. Everything else apart from my pounding heartbeat was gone.
The healer’s wing loomed ahead. I didn’t slow. I shoved the doors open, shoulders slamming into wood. The scent of healing salves, blood, herbs, and scorched linen flooded my nose.
“Too late?” I didn’t even realize I’d said it aloud.
“Quin.” A firm voice stopped me.
I turned, panting, to find Dain standing just ahead. His sleeves were rolled up, face drawn tight with strain. His eyes flicked up and down me, taking in the blood, the wear in my limbs, the tremble in my fists.
“She’s alive,” he said quickly. “Myrin’s working on her now.”
My knees nearly buckled. Alive.
I wiped a hand across my face. It came back red with sweat and blood. “She—did she wake?”
Dain hesitated. “No.”
He stepped closer, voice dropping. “She’ll live, Quin. Myrin’s the best.”
I nodded, slower this time. “I want to see her.”
“You can’t. Not yet. Myrin said no one until she’s stabilized.”
I gritted my teeth and looked away.
I knew he was right. But the image of her lying there, half-conscious, bloodied—broken—wouldn’t leave my mind. I clenched my fists and tried to breathe past it.
“She’s strong,” Dain said after a moment. “You know that.”
I swallowed hard, nodded, turning toward the corridor behind him. Then I paused. “Where’s Kalias?”
“He’s here. Azaria’s sister is treating him.”
“Elaria?”
“Yeah. She’ll fix him.”
A long silence hung between us. I glanced at the doors at the end of the corridor, which were sealed with glowing runes. The wards were active. I couldn’t push past them, no matter how much I wanted to.
So I sat on the bench against the wall, head leaning back, fists resting on my knees. I reached for the bond. Needed to feel her pulse, her pain, anything that told me she was still there.
Nothing.
The wards cut me off completely. Silence where she should have been. Like someone had severed a limb I didn’t know I was using. My chest tightened. I knew it was necessary. Knew Myrin needed total control, no interference. But the absence clawed at me worse than any injury I’d taken.
So I waited.
Three hours.
Lyra’s arm looped through mine at some point, like when we were kids and I was seconds from snapping.
I didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Kalias, back from Elaria’s treatment as a wolf, lay across from me.
Dain stood against the wall. Elias stayed close and silent.
Kael and Reyna had gone to brief Tywin. Someone needed to report what happened.
Thorne, Lirael, and Zeph went to rest. We didn’t.
All I could think was—I wasn’t there. I should have been.
We all knew the threats were growing. We all knew Torven and Malphyr weren’t sitting idle. I should have expected it, should’ve planned better, should’ve?—
Fuck.
My jaw clenched until it ached. My tattoos throbbed with restrained energy—blood humming under my skin like boiling water, like it wanted to tear me apart from the inside.
Elias must have sensed it—he always did. His hand rested on my shoulder, grounding. Quiet. Heavy. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was. Because I would never forgive myself for this.
The door groaned open. We all jerked forward at once. Myrin stepped through. Her shoulders sagged. Her hands, usually steady, trembled as she pushed hair from her face. Her magic flickered, barely there. Gods. I had never seen her look this spent.
She didn’t make us wait. Her voice was hoarse. “She’s stable.”
I couldn’t breathe. The silence in the hall broke like a wave crashing—Dain’s hands to his face, Kalias’s massive frame sagging visibly, Lyra gasping.
“She’s alive,” Myrin added, softer now. “And she’s holding. She needs rest now.”
My mouth was dry. My limbs ached. I couldn’t tell if I was shaking or if the floor was.
“Can we see her?” I didn’t just want to. I needed to.
Myrin looked me over, as if weighing something behind her eyes. “Not yet,” she said gently but firmly. “Give her a few hours. She’s sedated. She needs time.”
I nodded. Tried to stand. Failed. Elias steadied me. Didn’t say a word. I closed my eyes. And I breathed.
The silence that followed Myrin’s announcement was different now.
“She’s alive,” Lyra whispered beside me. “That’s what matters.”
I nodded faintly. The words didn’t sit right, but I said nothing. Because she was right. And yet?—
It was Elias who spoke next, with his usual steadiness. “You should go back. Rest, even for an hour. You’ve burned your magic down to the core, Quin.”
Across the hall, Kalias, still in wolf form, lifted his head slowly at that. His ears flicked.
“Same goes for you,” Elias added, voice firmer.
Kalias huffed, low and deep in his throat. And then, like the stubborn beast he was, he lowered his massive head onto his paws again. A silent no.
“You’re wasting your breath,” I murmured.
“You’re one to talk,” Dain cut in from where he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, voice just above a whisper. “You’ve been running on fumes for hours. Go.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like shit.”
“Then I match the mood.”
“Quinton.” Elias stepped in again, a quiet command in his voice. “You know there’s nothing more we can do for her right now. You’ve done more than enough. Let Myrin and the others work.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to stay. But Lyra shifted beside me and tugged lightly on my sleeve. “At least clean up. You’re still covered in her blood.”
I glanced down. She was right. It was dried on my arms, my palms, even my shirt. I hadn’t noticed. I wouldn't have cared if I had.
“I’ll send word the moment there’s movement,” Dain added, softer now. “You know I will.”
I met his eyes. He meant it. Kalias didn’t even lift his head again. He only shifted enough to inch closer to the healer’s door like a silent sentry, his body guarding what no one else could.
I exhaled slowly. “Fine.”
I pushed to my feet. My legs ached. My back screamed. My magic coiled inside me like a tired beast. Lyra and Elias rose beside me, flanking me like shadows. They didn’t speak, didn’t press. Just walked with me. I glanced back.
Kalias, guarding the door. Dain, arms crossed tight over his chest. The door, still glowing with Myrin’s seal.
The moment I stepped into my quarters, the door shut behind me with a soft click—and everything unraveled. Not loudly. Not with shouts or fists through walls.
I leaned against the door and slid down, my back hitting the wood with a dull thud, legs folding beneath me.
I sat there, hands still stained. Clothes still soaked with blood that wasn’t mine.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t make a sound.
But my magic did.
It started as a tremor beneath my skin: my tattoos flaring hot; the ink pulsing with a vicious, guttural heat. Then the blood beneath answered, howling through my veins, straining against the edges of my control like something caged and starving. And it bled out of me.
Not from a wound. From everywhere. My pores, my palms, the tattoos themselves—thin tendrils of crimson mist curling off my skin, rising like smoke from a body that had forgotten how to hold itself together.
The room filled slowly. A red haze crept along the floor, climbing the walls, thickening the air until the lamplight turned the color of rust. My magic screamed where I couldn’t—furious, wounded, feral. It wanted to tear down the ones who did this. It wanted vengeance. It wanted her.
I didn’t move. The mist coiled around my hands, my arms, pooling in my lap like spilled wine. It pulsed with my heartbeat; each throb pushing more of it into the room, painting the stone and the wood and the air itself in shades of blood.
I sat in the center of it. Perfectly still. Eyes open, staring at nothing.
Fuck, Azaria.
I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes. I didn’t cry. I hadn’t cried in years. But the room wept for me. Red mist clung to every surface, thick and heavy and alive; my magic grieving in the only language it knew.
You failed her.
My jaw clenched until it screamed. My fingers curled into fists against the stone floor, knuckles white.
I wasn’t there. She was alone.
I dropped my head back against the door. I should have been faster. Smarter. Stronger. I should’ve known something was wrong. I should have felt it sooner. I should?—
The mist thickened, pressing against the walls like a living thing; the metallic tang was so dense I could taste it on my tongue. The lamplight guttered, nearly drowned by the haze, but I didn’t move. Didn’t stand. Didn’t pace. Didn’t throw anything or punch anything or scream.
I sat in the red dark, and I let it have me. Because there was no enemy here. Just me. Just this. Just the hollow ache in my chest and the image of her: bloodied, broken, still. And I wasn’t sure what was worse. That I couldn’t stop it, or that next time… I might lose her entirely.
The mist hung in the room for hours. Long after the lamp died. Long after the silence turned absolute. I didn’t sleep. Didn’t close my eyes. I sat there until the red finally thinned, until my magic exhausted itself and sank back into my bones.
And then it was dark. And I was alone.
And the only thing keeping me from shattering was the faint, stubborn knowledge that somewhere in this palace, behind those sealed doors, her heart was still beating.