I catch her before she falls. Pull her against my armored torso. Feel the mark blaze between us—mine and hers, calling and answering, bright enough to make the death wardens behind me shield their eyes.
“You magnificent idiot.” The words come out rough. Wrecked. “You could have killed yourself.”
Her eyes flutter open. Dark and unfocused, but finding me through the haze of exhaustion and blood loss.
“Worth it.” The words come out barely audible, a whisper against my ear. “Did you hear them? They wanted—they wanted someone to listen?—”
Her eyes roll back.
She goes limp in my arms.
TWENTY-SIX
DROKHAR
Irise with her cradled against my armor, her head tucked against my shoulder, her hair tangled across my arm. The mark burns beneath my breastbone—not pain, but awareness. She’s alive. Unconscious, drained, but alive.
The death wardens stare at me as I carry her back through the gates.
Varn steps into my path, her scarred face unreadable. “The prisoner?—”
“Is coming with me.”
“The Council?—”
“The Council can burn.” I don’t slow down. Don’t look at her. “She saved every one of us. She gave those soldiers what they needed. If the Council has a problem with that, they can take it up with me.”
Varn steps aside.
I carry Aradya past the collapsed corpses of soldiers who finally found peace. Past the horrified faces of death wardens who have spent their careers burning the dead and have never seen anyone set them free instead. Past the pyres that still smolder at the edges of the pit, their flames casting long shadows across ground that has soaked up centuries of endings.
My quarters are in the corner of the main building—spartan even by warden standards, containing nothing personal except a set of dog tags in a drawer I’ve been avoiding. I lay her on my narrow bed, her small frame barely filling half the mattress, her blood-streaked face pale against the rough sheets.
Then I sit down beside her.
And I wait.
She wakes hours later,when the light through my single window has shifted from dawn gold to afternoon gray.
I’ve been watching her the whole time. Haven’t moved except to clean the blood from her face, to check that her breathing stays steady, to feel the mark pulse between us with every beat of her heart. The rhythm has become as familiar as my own—two heartbeats syncing, calling to each other across the space between my chair and the bed.
Her eyes open. Dark. Confused. Finding me with the same unerring accuracy the mark provides.
“You stayed.” The word rasps out, raw from the power she channeled.
“I’m not leaving.”
She tries to sit up. Winces. Falls back against the pillow with a grimace that makes my hands curl into fists against the urge to reach for her.
“How long?”
“Six hours. Maybe seven.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, close enough to touch but not touching. Not yet. “The Council sent three messengers. I told them all to leave.”
“They’ll want my head.”
“They can’t have it.”
Her lips curve. Not quite a smile, but close. “Careful. That almost sounded protective.”