CHAPTER 30
The world snapped back into place with a gasp.
Faelith’s eyes flew open, her breath catching as the last echo of the Tree’s vision dissolved. The grove was still trembling, the air thick with smoke and fire, but she was no longer under the tree—she was lying against the roots, half-propped, half-collapsed, her cheek pressed to the warm bark.
Her body throbbed with pain. Her back burned. Her head spun.
But she was awake.
And the first thing she saw was Tyr.
He lay several yards away, half-buried in ash and leaves, armor cracked, blood streaking down his temple. For one horrifying heartbeat, he didn’t move.
Then— A twitch. His fingers curled weakly. His chest rose in a shallow breath.
He was alive.
Faelith exhaled a shaky breath of relief, her vision blurring for a moment. She tried to call out to him, but her voice failed, coming out as nothing more than a rasp.
She forced herself to look past him.
Cian stood alone.
Facing Damon.
His strength was nearly gone—she could see it in the way his shoulders sagged, in the tremor in his sword arm, in the way his stance faltered with every step. Damon pressed forward, fire swirling around him, blade raised for the killing strike.
Cian was going to die.
Faelith’s heart lurched.
She pushed herself upright, pain screaming through her spine. Her hand slipped on a root. She blinked hard, forcing her vision to steady.
She crawled toward it, dragging herself across the ground. Every movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her back, but she didn’t stop. She reached the bow, fingers trembling as she closed around the grip.
She needed an arrow.
Her breath hitched.
Faelith reached behind her shoulder, fingers brushing the broken shaft. The moment she touched it, white-hot pain exploded through her body, blinding her. She bit down on a cry, teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached.
“Come on,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Come on…”
She pulled.
With a cry, the arrow slid free in a sickening rush, blood spilling down her back and arm. Her vision went white at the edges, her stomach twisting, but she didn’t stop. She notched the arrow—slick with her blood—onto the bowstring.
She stood up.
Damon didn’t notice her. Too arrogant, focusing on Cian. Goading him.
She drew the bowstring back, her arms shaking violently. Her breath trembled. Her vision wavered. She blinked hard, forcing Damon into focus.
Cian started to rise. Damon raised his blade.
Faelith let go.
The arrow soared, slicing through the air in a perfect, silent arc.
It struck Damon in the throat.
He staggered, choking. Cian froze mid-strike, staring in disbelief as Damon collapsed to his knees, then fell to his side on the scorched earth.
Faelith exhaled, her breath trembling.
Cian was safe; he turned and stared at her.
Relief washed through her—warm, heavy, overwhelming as they looked at each other.
The pain and blood loss were sapping the strength from her limbs; she should rest. Now that Damon was gone, his army would have no reason to fight. She let herself sink back against the roots, her limbs suddenly weightless, her vision swimming.
Though she didn’t remember sitting down.
The world tilted. Darkness swept in.
???
She woke into silence.
A reflective pool stretched beneath her—smooth as glass, perfectly still, mirroring her form even though she cast no shadow. There was no sky above her, no horizon. Just an endless, quiet void, black and depthless, swallowing all sound.
A woman stood a few paces away, barefoot on the mirror-still water. Her hair was long and light, braided with silver ribbon that shimmered like starlight. Her dress was white and flowing.
Her eyes, the same color as hers, familiar—watched Faelith with a softness that made her chest tighten.
The woman smiled—sad, warm, knowing. “Fy un bach.”
The words struck Faelith like a physical blow. Her knees nearly buckled. She swallowed hard, fighting the sudden sting in her eyes.
Her birth mother.
“You’re...” Her voice broke. “You’re real?”
“In this place,” her mother said gently, “I am what remains. A memory. A fragment. A truth the Tree kept safe.”
Faelith took a step forward, the reflective pool holding her weight as though it were solid ground. “Why am I here? What is this?”
Her mother’s expression softened. “A threshold. A place between life and death. Between choice and destiny.”
Faelith’s pulse quickened. “Am I dying?”
A pause.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” her mother said softly. “Your body is weak. But you are not gone yet.”
Faelith’s breath trembled. Images flashed through her mind—Tyr unconscious, Cian fighting alone, Damon’s blade raised, the bow in her hands, the arrow ripping from her back, the shot finding its mark.
And then darkness.
She swallowed hard. “Cian… Tyr… are they...?”
“They’re alive,” her mother responded. “Because of your actions.”
Relief washed through Faelith. That was most important to her, keeping those she cared about safe.
Her mother stepped closer, the void rippling faintly around her feet. “You carry my blood. My strength. My burden.”
Faelith’s throat tightened. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.” Her mother reached out, her hand hovering just shy of Faelith’s cheek. “In time. Just know you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, and that I’m proud of you. Never forget that.”
“Now comes your choice.”
Faelith blinked. “My choice?”
“The Tree holds you,” her mother’s solemn voice rang out. “It is trying to heal you. But it cannot do so if you remain here. Will you return to the ones you care about and embrace your destiny? Or will you let this all go, letting your essence pass back into the Tree of Life?”
???
Faelith’s eyes snapped open.
She awoke into warmth.
The roots around her were retreating—slowly, reluctantly—sliding back into the earth. Their glow dimmed as they withdrew, leaving her lying against the mossy ground, breath trembling, body aching.
And she was not alone.
Cian was cradling her.
His arms were locked around her as though he’d fought the Tree itself to keep her close. His forehead rested against her temple, his breath uneven, his chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. Dirt and dried blood streaked his face. Blood stained his hands and clothes. His entire body shook.
“Faelith…” His voice cracked as he realized she was awake. “Gods...Faelith.”
She blinked up at him, vision hazy, the world still swimming. “Cian…?”
He let out a sound—half laugh, half sob—and pulled her closer, kissing her forehead and pressing his cheek to the top of her hair. “I thought I lost you.”
She tried to lift her hand. It barely moved. “I would never leave you.”
The roots continued to withdraw, curling back into the soil until only faint lines of light remained beneath them. The Tree’s hum faded to a low, steady pulse—watchful, waiting.
Faelith swallowed, her throat dry. “Tyr…?”
Cian leaned back and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as he told her.
“He’s alive. Hurt, but alive. The others are tending to him.”
Relief washed through her, warm and heavy.
But something else washed in with it.
In a panic, she asked. “How about you? Are you hurt?”
Cian’s expression softened, just for a fraction of a second, at her question. It was the kind of softness he never let anyone see, the kind he didn’t even know he had until she forced it out of him.
But it vanished almost immediately.
He didn’t answer. Not with words.
His eyes flicked away, jaw tightening, shoulders stiffening beneath her. The movement was small, but she felt it—felt the way his breath caught, felt the tremor in his arms as he held her, felt the way he tried to shift his weight so she wouldn’t notice the pain radiating through him.
He was hurt. Badly. And he didn’t want her to know.
Faelith’s fingers curled weakly against his chest. “Cian…”
He swallowed hard, the sound thick. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t.
She could see it now—a burn along his forearm, a deep cut near his collarbone that had soaked through his shirt, a new scar forming on his chin. His breathing was uneven, shallow. His skin was pale beneath the soot.
He was barely holding himself upright through the exhaustion. But he was holding her.
“Cian,” she whispered again, voice trembling. “You’re hurt.”
He shook his head, refusing to meet her eyes. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does!” She protested.
His arms tightened around her, as if the very idea of letting go was unbearable.
“Let’s just rest here for a while.” He sighed.
She lifted her hand again—slow, shaking—and brushed her fingers against his cheek. He leaned into the touch without meaning to, eyes closed for a moment and then reopened.
She then saw it as it reflected back to her; the fear, the exhaustion, the raw, unguarded relief. And she nodded.
“We can rest here for a bit.”
He exhaled shakily. “Good.”
Cian rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet that followed chaos. For a moment—just a moment—the world felt still.
Just the two of them, alive.
His arms tightened around her, careful but desperate, as though he feared she might slip away if he loosened his grip even a fraction.
They had won.
But only barely.
Faelith closed her eyes, letting herself lean into him, letting the warmth of him anchor her to the present.
Around them, the grove was quiet.
The Tree’s glow had faded to a soft pulse, like a heartbeat beneath the earth. The roots lay still. The air smelled of smoke and magic, but the danger had passed.
For now.
Faelith felt it—like a distant rumble beneath her ribs. A shift. A warning. A sense that something vast and ancient had stirred when she touched the Tree, when she bled on its bark, when she saw her mother in the void.
Destiny wasn’t done with them.
Not even close.
Cian must have felt it too, his voice barely a whisper against her skin.
“Whatever happens next, we’ll deal with it together.”
Faelith snuggled closer; she believed him. In his arms, she found her place.
As long as he was by her side, she could do anything.