26. Cassiel #2
It’s a beast out of myth—antlers like a stag’s crown, body long and powerful like a great cat, eyes blazing with fierce, unmistakable intent. It charges straight through the fight, scattering our attackers like leaves.
An elkasha, if I’m not mistaken.
It drops to the ground in front of us, its intention unmistakable. I scramble onto its back, clutching Wren against me as the creature surges forward. It moves like thunder, leaping roots and fallen logs with impossible grace. Behind us, Robin runs flat out, keeping pace.
Branches whip past, wind tearing at my breath, but I don’t let go of her, even as my own side screams in protest. I press my forehead to hers, whispering her name like a prayer.
Please.
Please stay.
We can’t ride for long.
Wren’s weight slackens against me, the wet heat spreading through my hands, her breath stuttering. The creature senses it too. It slows, veering sharply through the trees towards stone half-swallowed by moss and time.
An abandoned ruin. Broken walls. A roof long since collapsed. Sanctuary only by the thinnest margin—but it’s something.
The beast lowers itself and I slide down, nearly stumbling as I clutch Wren to my chest. Robin skids to a halt beside us, whining, nose pressed desperately to her side.
“Wall,” Wren rasps. “Left.”
I stagger where she gestures, and she drags one blood-slicked hand across the stone.
“Procta,” she whispers.
Runes flare faintly and settle into a soft, protective glow. The pressure in the air lifts. Just a little.
I lay her down as gently as I can on the cold stone floor, hands shaking now that there’s nothing holding me upright but fear. Blood pools beneath her, dark and unreal.
“Why, Wren?” My voice breaks the moment the words leave me. “Why did you do that?”
She turns her head toward me with effort, lips pale, eyes still impossibly bright. “Because I love you,” she whispers hoarsely. “I’ve always loved you.” Her breath hitches. “I’m going to die loving you.”
“No,” I say instantly, violently.
Her fingers twitch against my sleeve. “You don’t need to say it back,” she adds faintly. “Just because I’m dying.”
“You are not dying.” I press my hands against the wound, useless, frantic. “Wren, do you hear me? You are not going to die. I forbid it.”
The words sound ridiculous even to me. I’m no prince of death. I can’t order it away.
I am no stranger to battle injuries. I’ve ridden with knights into the field. I’ve seen blood and bone and the aftermath of bad decisions. I’ve patched up cuts, bound gashes, held pressure while someone else did the real work.
But never this.
If someone was ever hurt this badly, there was always someone else. A healer, a medic. Someone trained. Someone steady.
Not me. Not alone. Not now.
I tear my shirt into strips with shaking hands, try to stanch the bleeding, but it’s not enough. My fingers come away red again and again.
“No, no, no,” I mutter, backing away suddenly. “Stay with me. Just—stay with me.”
I scramble to my feet and bolt through the ruin, panic driving me faster than thought. I wrench open doors that barely hang on their hinges, kick aside rubble, rip apart rotted chests.
“Please,” I whisper to the empty stone. “Please.”
Anything. Cloth. Herbs. A blade. A relic. A miracle.
The building gives me nothing but dust and echoes.
I tear through it anyway, refusing to stop, because if I stop—
—she might be gone when I turn back.
I find rags eventually.
They’re stuffed in a collapsed cupboard, stiff with age and dust, the kind of cloth that crumbles at the edges when I pull it free. I don’t stop to think about what it might carry—mould, rot, sickness. Infection is a problem for later, for a future I am not convinced exists.
I press them to her wound anyway.
“Cass,” Wren murmurs weakly as I work, fingers trembling as they knot the fabric tight. “It’s all right. You don’t have to fight so hard. It’s all right…”
I shake my head hard, like I can fling the words away. “It’ll be all right when you’re all right,” I tell her. “Not before.”
I find a scrap of tarp—old, waterproof, half-buried beneath fallen stone—and drape it over her to keep in the heat, to keep the night from stealing what little warmth she has left. My hands are slick with blood. My arms ache from holding pressure.
It’s not enough.
Stomach wounds don’t kill fast. They’re cruel like that. They give you time to hope, time to bargain, time to say things you shouldn’t have to say yet. And then they kill you anyway.
Wren reaches for me, fingers brushing my wrist. “Cassiel,” she whispers. “Listen to me.”
“No,” I say again, hoarse. “I will not.”
I stagger to my feet and run.
Out of the ruin. Out into the trees. I don’t care about sound or sense or safety. I don’t care if the fey hear me. They can come. They can finish it. I didn’t claw my sight back just to kneel beside her and watch her die.
I tilt my face to the sky and scream.
“Is this what you wanted?” I shout at the stars. “Is it your will that she dies here? How does this save anyone? How does this end anything?”
My voice breaks, but I don’t stop. I shout again. And again. I curse them. I beg them. I promise things I don’t even know how to give.
The stars say nothing.
They burn cold and distant, twelve indifferent points of light.
I laugh once, sharp and hysterical, and drag my hands through my hair. “Cowards,” I spit. “All of you.”
Grass shifts behind me.
I spin, heart slamming, hand flying to my sword despite everything I just said. Despite the despair clawing my chest hollow, instinct snaps me into place. I am not done. I am not going quietly.
A shadow moves between the trees, close to where the elkasha grazes, its massive shape calm and watchful even now. The shadow detaches itself from the dark and steps into the moonlight.
He is tall and willowy, all long lines and quiet grace. Brown skin catches the silver glow; dark violet eyes reflect it back, bright and steady. His hair sits in coils close to his scalp, dark as bark after rain.
I’ve never seen him before, but I know we’ve met.
My breath stutters. “You—”
“Hello, Prince Cassiel,” he says gently.
It’s Zephyr. Wren’s cousin.
The reason my brother is dead.