The throne hall felt smaller now, the high gold ceiling pressing down like a lid on a coffin, the air thick with the copper reek of blood and the lingering char of Seraphine’s final flame, the marble floor slick under my boots where her body lay still, face down, the pool beneath her no longer spreading but congealing into a dark, sticky mirror that caught the dying torchlight in dull, fractured gleams. Harlan was gone head separated, body slumped forward, knees hit stone first, torso collapsed, blood pouring from the neck in thick, dark gouts that pooled beneath him in a widening, glistening lake that reflected the dying torches in sick, shimmering patterns. Lord Voss slumped against the throne, stump of his arm leaking steadily, the stump glistening pink and raw where bone jutted through shredded flesh like broken teeth, blood pooling beneath him in a slow, widening stain that soaked the velvet cushions black. Liora stood beside me, lightning still crackling faintly along her blade

The throne hall doors had sealed behind us hours ago, but the silence that followed the slaughter felt like it had lasted years. The torches had burned down to nubs, throwing weak, orange flickers across the marble that made the blood pools look like spilled ink, thick and black in the low light. Seraphine’s body lay where she fell, face down, the wound in her chest crusted over with dark scabs, the pool beneath her no longer spreading but hardening into a brittle, cracked sheet that caught the torchlight in dull, fractured gleams. Harlan’s head rested a few feet away, eyes wide and glassy, mouth frozen in mid-laugh, the neck stump ragged and torn where Reaper had taken it. Lord Voss slumped against the throne, stump of his arm wrapped in a torn cloak by Kora, the cloth soaked black and dripping steadily onto the velvet cushions. The air was thick, almost chewable, heavy with copper and charred meat and the faint, sickly sweetness of voided bowels from the dead. Every breath tasted of

The mountain path down from the fallen manor was narrow and treacherous, loose shale sliding under our boots with every step, the ground still trembling from the manor’s final collapse, sending small avalanches of rock and dust cascading down the slope behind us. The sky had opened gray, bruised clouds unleashing a cold, steady rain that turned the dirt to mud and plastered my cloak to my shoulders, heavy and sodden. The rain tasted of iron and ash, running down my face in rivulets that mixed with the dried blood on my cheeks, turning it into thin, pink streams that dripped from my chin. My side burned with every movement, the torn stitches pulling open wider, fresh blood seeping through the bandage in warm pulses that soaked my tunic and cooled against my skin in sticky patches. The crimson mist lingered under my flesh, a low, constant hum, warm and possessive, whispering promises of more power if I just reached for it again. Liora walked beside me close enough that her shoulder bru

The camp fire had burned down to embers by the time the rain eased into a cold, steady drizzle, the coals hissing faintly under the wet ash, throwing weak, orange flickers across the mud that sucked at our boots with every step. The tents sagged under the weight of water, canvas dark and heavy, ropes straining against stakes driven deep into the sodden ground. Mira slept inside one curled tight under a blanket Liora had wrapped around her twice small face peaceful despite everything, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. The sight of her small, safe, trusting should have hurt. It didn’t. The numbness had reached too deep. I sat apart from the fire, back against a rain slick boulder, Reaper across my knees, blade crusted with dried blood that flaked off in small, dark curls when I shifted. My cloak hung heavy with water, cold against my shoulders, the wound in my side a constant, throbbing pulse that leaked fresh blood in slow, sticky trails down my hip. The crimson mist c

The pass narrowed to a knife edge slit between sheer rock walls, rain cascading down the stone in silver ropes that pounded our shoulders and turned the path into a slick, treacherous chute. The mountain groaned deep, angry rock cracking above us, shale sliding in sudden, roaring cascades that forced us to run, boots slipping, mud sucking at our ankles. Liora led, sword drawn, lightning flaring in blue white arcs that lit the rain in sharp, strobing flashes. Rag followed, Mira clinging to his back, small arms locked around his neck, face buried in his fur. Kora’s wind whipped tight around us, pushing rain and falling stone away in furious eddies that left dry pockets in the chaos. Jax brought up the rear, earth mana rumbling low, hands pressed to the walls to sense the next tremor before it came. I ran last Reaper heavy in my grip, blade trailing through mud and blood, the wound in my side screaming with every stride, fresh blood pulsing hot and fast down my hip, soaking my tunic and