Chapter Thirty-Seven
Eryon - Earlier
She betrayed me.
The words are poison in my veins, a sickness that burns through my chest. I watch her lie, about me, about us and everything we had.
I see her step toward the man who tried to steal what was mine.
I witness her speak false words, hold out her hands to him—hands that once clutched at me, traced my skin, trembled in my grip as she came undone.
And now—she is his.
A tearing, splitting sensation rips through my chest. I cannot breathe. This must be what she felt under that damned avalanche. There is no air without her. No light, without her. Only darkness and death.
The storm howls in my ears, wind shrieking through the ravine. I do not know if it is the land’s fury or my own. Perhaps they are one and the same. The world narrows to a knife’s edge. Snow churns around us, a vortex of white and shadow like the maelstrom of my heart.
The pain erupts out of me in a primal scream that threatens to bring down the mountain itself.
She turns to me, those damned blue-violet eyes reminding me of everything I’ve lost, again.
I see her lips move, forming around the gift I foolishly offered.
Not just the sounds that make my name, but myself, my very soul.
My name on her lips had once been sacred, but now it is a curse I cannot bear to hear again. I will not let her speak it.
I stop her, but instead of shame or regret, instead of the fear that should be flashing in her eyes, instead I see acceptance. Resolve. A steely determination that has her eyes blazing brighter than the stars. A look that has the smallest voice inside of me daring to whisper, maybe I am wrong.
Because I have seen this look in the eyes of a mate before. And the only thing strong enough for this level of commitment in the face of loss, is love.
Before I can listen to the quiet whisper, before I can let hope think about blossoming in this land of ice and snow, a click draws both of our attention, spinning us back to face the one they call Ben.
He holds a gun raised directly towards me, his finger tightly curled around the trigger. His eyes are as dead as his heart. Before I can move, before I can sweep my Winter Star behind the shield of my body, she proves that small voice right and runs towards the looming danger.
Her legs churn, snow kicking up in her wake as she launches herself directly into the path between me and death.
No.
NO!
The shot cracks through the air. The storm stills as the mountain holds its breath with me.
The whole world waits in silence as Dahlia’s shoulder takes the impact and she slams to her knees before her body falls.
And so do the stars. The very earth stops spinning.
Not even a single snowflake dares to break the stillness of the moment.
Too late, I understand.
Her words had never been a betrayal. They had been a sacrifice. A deception. She was never his. She was never theirs. She was always mine.
And now—she is dying for it.
The earth roars.
No, it’s me. It detonates from my chest, the fury of centuries unleashed. It is not a sound meant for human ears. It is the voice of the wild, of the storm, of the earth itself crying out in wrath.
The ground beneath me cracks. The cliffs tremble. Snow cascades from the ledges above, the mountain itself answering my rage.
I am moving though I do not remember choosing to move. My body surges forward, but she is already still. Silent. Gone is the flush from her beautiful face, gone is the light from her eyes. This great loss demands justice, and I will rain down the punishment and revel in it.
The world stops in the space between my heartbeats. The space where she will live for all eternity, but only one beat more is all the longer any of them will live before I tear this world apart. Starting with them.
The first man barely has time to scream as I hit him like a landslide, claws rending flesh, bone, sinew. Red sprays hot against the snow, steaming in the cold. His weapon clatters uselessly to the ground. His body crumples, and something in me twists.
She did this for me.
I grab the next man by the throat, lifting him from the ground as he claws at my wrist. His eyes bulge. His mouth gapes, gasping for air that will not come.
This is for the words she choked on to keep me safe.
I squeeze. His neck gives way with a wet crunch, and I toss him aside like he is nothing more than kindling. Another turns, raising his rifle. My heart beats a staccato rhythm of guilt.
I should have been faster. Moved faster. Understood faster.
I rip the gun from his hands and with it the arms from his body. He barely has time to register the pain before I send him sprawling over the cliff’s edge, the mountain swallowing his screams.
Her hands had trembled when she gave the soapberry to Sita.
I see it now—her plan, her quiet defiance. The beast inside me demands more sacrifice, more carnage. More revenge. But there will never be enough blood to sacrifice in her name.
I grab another by the waist, lifting him overhead. His bones snap like dry branches as I bend him backward until his spine breaks. I plow through them like the great Northern winds. Fierce. Relentless.
She trusted me to protect her.
The others run, or at least, they try. One man scrambles backward on the ice, clawing at the snow, eyes wide with the kind of terror that turns men into prey. I descend upon him like the storm itself, my foot pressing down until his ribs crack beneath my weight.
He gasps, pleading. As if that would save him.
But it is his mistake, because the only voice I want to hear, need to hear right now, is silenced.
I seize him by the leg and swing. His body slams into rock, bones shattering on impact.
Once. Twice. A final, sickening crack. I let what remains of him fall to the ground in a useless heap.
She fought for me. And I doubted her.
A snarl cuts through the air, sharp and furious. The wolf with its teeth bared, hackles raised, has returned. I whirl to face it, growling back, my own hackles raised and claws extended. I am one with my beast. The wolf whimpers in response, tucks its tail, and bolts back into the trees.
I spin in a circle, looking for my next target, but only one remains.
Ben.
He stands frozen, his gun shaking in his grip, ragged breath misting the frozen air. I am on him before he can think to run. His scream is cut short as I lift him from the ground. He flails, kicking at empty air, his boots scraping uselessly against my chest.
I stare into his eyes. I want him to understand. I want him to see. All the men like him. All the destruction. All the greed. All the pain.
He will be the last. I will make sure of it.
I tighten my grip. He gurgles, his face turning red, then purple. His heartbeat hammers against my palm, frantic. I could crush him. Snap his spine. Tear him apart.
But that is too kind.
I step to the very edge of the mountain, my feet steady and sure, never tearing my eyes from his as they begin to slowly turn red from the pressure. I let him dangle, let his terror bloom like the rarest flower.
The storm resumes in earnest around us, the mountain crying out for vengeance. The cliffs above groan as snow shifts, fractures deepening, the land itself demanding justice.
Then—I roar. A sound so raw, so deafening, it shatters the ice beneath our feet. I do not care. Let the mountain take me as well. I am ready to meet my Winter Star in whatever lies beyond this world.
Ben shakes, pupils blown wide. His mouth moves, but no words can escape the crushing grip I have on his throat.
Good. He deserves no last words. He chokes out a faint gurgle, desperately trying to move air into his lungs while his fingers scrabble at my wrist, clawing for purchase, for mercy.
Mercy.
I think of Dahlia, lying in the snow. Her body breaking to protect me. I think of the fear in her eyes—not of me, but for me. I think of what I almost let myself believe.
He made me doubt her. He made me hesitate. He made me see her as something weak, something selfish—when she was always the strongest of us.
I snarl, tightening my grip, and feel something snap beneath my fingers.
Ben chokes, a strangled, pitiful sound. His lips move, attempting to form words—a desperate plea from a desperate man.
I do not care.
I lift him higher. Hold him there. Let him know he is nothing. He has always been nothing so I will return him to it. I pull back and hurl him into the sky. For a moment, he flies. Arms flailing. Finally able to breathe, he lets out an agonized, hoarse scream.
Then—he falls. The abyss takes him. The last echo of his cry stretches out, fading, until it is swallowed by the earth. The mountain’s call for sacrifice, my call for vengeance, my Sruhnar’s blood debt has been satisfied.
When silence reigns once more, I stop and take a shuddering breath. My chest constricts, my heart scarcely able to beat in a chest that has caved in on itself. The bloodlust still thrums in my veins, but something colder grips me now. Darker.
All-consuming grief. A companion I had hoped never to see again.
I turn to look upon her one last time where she lies in the snow. My Dahlia is movement and light and laughter. And now, she is still. So still.
The world shifts—no more fury, no more vengeance. Just—silence.
I drop to my knees. I reach for her, already dreading the stiffness, the cold, the absence of my light.
My hand trembles as I press it against her chest, waiting for nothing.
But there—there is something. A heartbeat.
Slow. Weak. But there. My heart stutters as my mind tries to comprehend. Can it be?
I sweep her up into my arms, and then I see it. A dart sticking in her shoulder, not a bullet. Such a small insignificant thing. And yet, it could have taken everything from me. It was meant for me, but she took it instead.
I thought her strong. I thought her unbreakable. But in this moment, she is so small beneath my hands. So fragile…so human.
I almost lost her.
And for the first time in centuries, I am afraid. Afraid to hope. Afraid to breathe. Afraid that if I do, she will slip away. I pray—to the Creator, mother moon, to the gods of the old world and the new, to any power that will listen.
Please. Let her live. Take my life if you must, but let her live.
Carefully, I stand, cradling her against my chest, shielding her from the wind. She is a small, fragile, breakable thing in my monstrous hands. And though she is even colder than when I pulled her from that avalanche, I feel a whisper of her breath against my skin. Weak, but real.
A tremor runs through me. Relief pulses with terror, merging into a pain I do not know how to hold. I press my forehead to hers, desperate, pleading, willing my very lifeforce into hers.
“Take everything I have, Sruhnar. Take my warmth, my fire, my heart.” I clutch her tighter. “I am here, my Winter Star. My mate. Come back to me.”