Page 180 of The Blood Rites

Inside the dome, the pressure drops as the fire vanishes. Kael collapses to his knees, both hands still pressed to the shadows, his face twisted in pain. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even try. His whole body shakes.

The shield is still there, but there is nothing left to hold back. I crawl to Kael on my elbows, both hands useless, my whole body a wreck. I try to touch his back, but the heat radiating off him is too much. I settle for curling myself around his knees, hiding my face against his thigh.

“You can let go,” I whisper.

He doesn’t.

Eventually, Kael lowers his head. Even the tears stop.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't have to. I saw it all.

He let them die, for me. He would do it again.

He will do it again.

Until all that’s left is me.

There is a kind of silence that only comes after the world ends.

It isn’t real silence—the Embrace never gives you that. There’s the hum of Mana, the slow pulse of water in the fountain. But the rest of the world is gone. It’s just the four of us left. I can hear their breath nearby.

I am on the floor, curled against the cold marble base of the central fountain. My head is in Kael’s lap. He is not conscious, not really, but his hands have locked around my ribs and will not let go. His shadows are gone. Spent.

The Mother Shard has replaced every burn with new skin, so much healing that Kael almost glows.

My own skin has knitted itself together—but not fast enough to erase the memories. I can still feel the burns across my back and wrists. I can still see the ghost of the trial’s scars. My body heals faster than my mind does.

I can see Serraith a few metres away. He is upright, knees drawn to his chest, elbows propped on them. He watches Kael with a look I can’t decipher. It looks like awe, but it could just as easily be jealousy or hatred. When he blinks, his eyes unfocus for a second, like he’s vibrating with the thought of finishing this.

Atheron stands at the farthest edge of the room, facing away from us. His hands are behind his back, posture perfect. His hair is immaculate, not a strand out of place. Even here, in limbo, he refuses to be ruffled.

He turns, and I steal a glance. His face is different: the mask has slipped. His lips are pressed so tight that they are bloodless, his eyes fixed on the fountain, pupils blown wide. The theatre is gone. Now he is just a man taking stock of an impossible threat.

I cannot see Kael’s face, but I can feel the tremor in his hands, the way he holds me too tight, like I am the only anchor he has left.

Overseers phase in and out of the walls. They sing lines from their incessant litany, and I want to scream.

Kael’s breathing changes, going shallow and fast. I reach up and touch his chest, feeling his heart trip over itself, like it doesn’t know how to go on.

His grip loosens. Just enough that I can slide upright, resting my shoulder against his. He doesn’t look at me. He just stares at the floor, empty, as if his mind is a grave.

I don’t know what to say.

Thank you.

I’m sorry.

You did what you had to.

I don’t know what words will piece him back together, even for a moment.

“It’s not your fault,” I say.

The words taste like poison. Wrong the moment they leave me.

He shakes his head, slow and broken. “It’s not enough.”

He says it in a voice so small I almost miss it.