Chapter 6
But the storm had already claimed her. Even as her spell cut down her enemies, their final volley rang out. Bullets screamed through the smoke, past her wards weakened by the strike, past her strength drained by blood loss. One found her heart. Another her ribs. And then—the last—pierced her temple.
For a moment, time refused to move. Mira stood tall, unyielding, crimson hair blazing in the morning sun, blood streaking her face yet unable to dim her radiance. She was not a woman. She was a legend. She was fire given flesh, dawn made manifest. Micah saw her as she truly was, eternal, terrible, beautiful.
Then the light faltered. Her wand slipped from her grasp, striking the stones with a hollow clatter. Her knees buckled. The fire in her eyes dimmed to embers. And with a slow, inexorable collapse, Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov fell. Blood spread across the cobblestones in a widening halo, staining the morning streets of New York with the last of her defiance.
Silence engulfed the street. The remaining men stood frozen, their weapons useless in their trembling hands. Onlookers clung to shadows, none daring to move. The world itself seemed to hold its breath.
Micah's cry shattered that silence. It was raw, primal, torn from his chest like flesh ripped from bone. "NONNA!" His knees struck the cobblestones as he threw himself beside her, hands trembling as they pressed against wounds that could not be mended. Blood covered him, hot, relentless, unstoppable. He shook her shoulders, his tears mixing with her crimson, his voice breaking in desperation. "No, no, no… not you, not like this… please—please—"
Her golden eyes, dimming but not gone, flickered to him one last time. The wound upon her brow should have ended her, yet the vow she carried clawed her back from the abyss, wrenching a final heartbeat from death itself. Blood streaked down her temple in dark rivers, but love bound her to the mortal coil for one last gift. Her lips curved faintly, not in sorrow but in eternal tenderness—the same smile she had given him as a child when she cradled him through fever, when she sang him into sleep. She tried to raise her hand, trembling, but it faltered halfway, hovering as if even the air itself longed to hold him close.
And still, her voice—soft, broken, yet vast as the heavens—slipped through her bloodied lips, not as a whisper, but as a decree. "Micah… you are not theirs. You are mine. Remember… my vow."
The words struck deeper than flesh, burning into him, etched into marrow, into soul. In that instant, the watch at his chest throbbed, its gears seizing with a pulse that was not its own but hers—her fire, her will, her legacy forcing itself into him. The cobblestones quivered, the air thickened, and for a moment the very city seemed to bow. Though her body faltered, her vow lingered, suspended like a flame that refused to die. It was more than farewell—it was a seed planted in blood and love, the first spark of what would rise in him.
Her breath shuddered, her body stilled. But her vow did not end. It lived, burning, within him.
And in that moment, something shifted. The air grew heavy, shimmering faintly as if her essence lingered, unwilling to release him. Though her body lay broken, the cobblestones seemed to tremble, the city itself recognizing the passing of something far greater than mortal.
The first scream ripped out of him before he even knew he had drawn breath. It was not a word, not a name—it was a sound older than language, the sound of something tearing loose inside him. It echoed against the brick, carried down the cobblestones, scattering the last stragglers who had not already fled. It was a howl too human to be animal, too broken to be human. It was grief unchained.
He fell to his knees beside her, hands fumbling, frantic, pressing against wounds that bled too freely, too fast. Warmth flooded over his fingers—her warmth, the life pouring out of her faster than he could hold it in. "No—no—please, no—" His voice cracked, collapsing in on itself. The cobblestones beneath him slicked red, soaking his trousers, staining his palms, painting him with her death. He pressed harder, harder, as though force could turn back time, as though if he pushed enough, the blood would retreat, the holes would seal.
"Stay with me—Nonna, please—" The word cracked into sobs. His tears blurred her face, dripping into the streaks of crimson across her skin. Her eyes, golden fire dimming into ember, tried to hold his gaze—but every blink lingered too long, every breath staggered as though she were already half in another world. "You can't—you can't leave me—you promised—you promised you'd never—" His throat seized, strangled by a sob so violent it choked him silent.
The street was no longer a street. It was a nightmare, stretched and distorted. The air stank of gunpowder and blood. Smoke curled around them like the grasp of a phantom, muffling the world until there was only her and him, her blood and his hands. Distant shouts blurred to nothing. The city, alive only moments ago with carts and bells and laughter, had vanished. He heard only his own heartbeat hammering in his ears, only her ragged breaths breaking beneath his palm.
And then—the sound that tore him in two. Her breath hitched, caught, faltered. He leaned closer, desperate, ear pressed to her lips. Once more the words came faint, trembling, drowned in blood. "Micah… you are not theirs. You are mine. Remember… my vow." Then silence.
"NO!" His roar tore the heavens. He shook her shoulders, violently, desperately, his hands smearing more blood across her face. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare leave me! Nonna! NONNA!" His voice cracked into shrill, broken notes, his throat shredding itself raw. He screamed until his lungs burned, until the sound no longer carried words, until it was nothing but animal grief poured into the air. People watching from alleys flinched as though the sound had struck them, some covering their ears, others weeping without knowing why.
He rocked over her, cradling her limp body against him, pressing his forehead to hers as if closeness could command her back. Her hair, crimson fire now dulled with blood, brushed his cheek. Her skin, once radiant, now chilled beneath his trembling lips. "Please… please," he whispered, over and over, like a prayer that had no god to hear it. His words dissolved into sobs, into gasps so violent they stole his breath. He rocked her as if she were still alive, as if she were still his grandmother knitting by the fire, singing her endless lullaby.
Memory stabbed him cruelly. Her voice singing The Dreamer's Road. Her hand on his brow when he was fevered. Her laugh, rich and warm, filling the kitchen. Every memory crashed down upon him now, each one sharper than a blade, each one reminding him of what he had lost. He saw her rocking chair, her shawl, her quiet smile—and here, now, her blood soaked his hands, her eyes lay half-open and vacant.
He shook his head violently, as if to drive the images away, but they multiplied. He saw her dying over and over, each gunshot replaying in his mind, each spatter of blood painting the cobblestones anew. He had been too slow, too weak, too useless. She had come to save him, and instead she had died for him. The weight of it crushed him, broke him, buried him alive in guilt.
"Take me," he begged the air, his words raw and choking. "Take me instead—give her back, please! I'll do anything—anything! Kill me, curse me, damn me, I don't care—just don't—don't leave me here without her!" His sobs broke into coughs, the taste of salt and iron flooding his mouth as if the world itself mocked him with her blood.
Around him, the city dared not move. Even the murderers who had pulled the triggers stood frozen, horror flickering in their eyes at the sight of the boy undone. Some turned away, unable to bear the sound of his screams, the sight of his body curled around hers like a child shielding his mother from the world. But Horace Blackwood lingered, his eyes still fever-bright, though even he seemed shaken by the rawness of the boy's grief.
Micah no longer saw them. The world was narrowed to her—the stillness of her chest, the silence where her lullaby should have been. He clung to her, trembling so violently he thought his body might shatter. "Don't go, don't go, don't go…" The words became a chant, a dirge, his voice breaking until it was barely more than a whisper.
Somewhere in the depths of his soul, something cracked. Grief deeper than marrow, older than flesh, sank its claws into him. He felt it twisting, reshaping him. The horror of loss was not only grief—it was fire, molten and terrible. It burned into him the certainty that life would never again be the same. That everything—his laughter, his youth, his innocence—had been stolen the moment she fell.