(Kael Draven — POV)
There is a sound a body makes when it hits stone the wrong way.
I hear it every time I close my eyes.
It isn't loud.
It isn't dramatic.
It's final.
I thought I knew that sound.
Turns out—I was wrong.
Her blood was still on my hands.
I scrubbed them under cold water until my knuckles split, until the red turned pink, then clear. It didn't help. I could still feel it—warm, slick, slipping through my fingers as I pressed against her wound.
Too much blood.
Too familiar.
I had carried bodies before.
Friends.
Soldiers.
Men who trusted me to bring them home.
But carrying her—
That was different.
That nearly broke me.
She lay unconscious on the narrow bed, bandages wrapped tight around her shoulder and ribs. Breathing shallow. Alive.
Alive.
The healer said it twice, like a spell. As if repetition would make it sink in.
"She was lucky," the woman had murmured.
Luck had nothing to do with it.
She survived because she refused to die.
Again.
I sat beside her, elbows on my knees, hands clasped so tightly my arms shook. I couldn't look away. I didn't trust the room not to steal her the moment I blinked.
I kept thinking—
If I had been slower.
If I had been wrong.
If the blade had gone deeper.
I would have arrived to silence.
And I don't think I would have survived that.
I've sworn oaths my entire life.
To the crown.
To the kingdom.
To order.
Every one of them broke the moment I saw her on the floor, bleeding, laughing in the face of death like it was an old enemy she recognized.
The queen crossed a line tonight.
Not a political one.
A human one.
And I will never forgive that.
Her fingers twitched.
I leaned forward instantly, breath caught halfway between panic and prayer.
"Aelira," I whispered, like saying her name softly might keep her tethered here.
Her lashes fluttered.
Then those impossible eyes opened.
Still sharp.
Still alive.
"You look terrible," she murmured faintly.
I laughed.
A broken, breathless sound that surprised us both.
"I almost lost you," I said.
She shifted slightly, pain flashing across her face—but she smiled anyway. Gods, that smile.
"No," she said quietly. "You didn't."
My jaw tightened. "I was seconds away."
"But you weren't," she replied. "You came."
I closed my eyes.
That was the problem.
I always would.
"I won't let her touch you again," I said, the words coming out rough. "I don't care what burns. I don't care who falls."
Aelira lifted her hand weakly and caught my sleeve.
"Kael," she whispered.
I looked at her.
Really looked.
And saw not fear—but fire.
"She wants you unbalanced," she said softly. "She wants rage."
I swallowed hard. "She's getting it."
"Not yet," Aelira replied. "Not like that."
Her grip tightened—surprisingly strong.
"She tried to end me in the dark," she continued. "So we end her in the light."
The certainty in her voice steadied something wild inside me.
I nodded once.
"Yes," I said. "In the light."
I rested my forehead against her hand, careful not to hurt her.
"You scared me," I admitted.
She smiled faintly. "Good."
I huffed a quiet laugh. "You're impossible."
"And you're still here," she said.
I lifted my head, meeting her gaze.
"So are you," I replied.
Outside the chamber, the palace trembled—rumors spreading, guards choosing sides, a queen tightening her grip.
But in this small room, with her breathing steady and real—
I made a final decision.
The crown took her blood.
Now it would answer for it.