Page 173 of Fallen Nocturne

The wounds aren’t healing.

They’re not healing because there’s nothing to heal them. My Strigon regeneration and undead resilience are gone.

It’s just flesh now, human and mortal.

I’m dying.

Lilith’s final gift. Her last fuck-you to the world. She unbound me. The witch broke the curse that made me undead and made me what I always wanted to be.

Human.

“No,” Rhianelle is saying, over and over. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.”

I almost want to laugh. Three thousand years I spent wishing for mortality and to be free of the curse, now that I finally am, now that I’m finally human—

I want to live. I want more time.

“Arescaine, stay with me!” Rhianelle’s hands are on my face, warm against my cooling skin. “Please! Someone help!”

I hear movement and voices raised in alarm.

Bas appears above me, his face twisted with anguish.

“No,” he says, his voice rough. “No, brother. Stay awake, Andras.”

His hands shake as he tries to hold the blood in, but there is too much of it. Warmth spills between his fingers no matter how hard he presses.

It’s too late.

I’m bleeding out. The blood pooling beneath me feels warmer. Perhaps I’m getting colder.

“Please help him,” Rhianelle begs, and she’s crying now. Tears stream down her face, falling on my cheeks like rain.

“Rhianelle,” I whisper, and it takes everything I have to get the words out. My hand tries to lift, tries to touch her face one more time. It barely moves, but I have to tell her while I still can.

I love you.

I want to tell her that she is the strongest person I have ever known. That she will survive this. That she will build the kingdom she has always dreamed of and make it into something beautiful.

I want to tell her she will be all right without me.

Even though the thought of leaving her tears through what remains of my heart.

But the words won’t come anymore. The throne room is getting darker and the edges of my vision are going gray. Darkness creeps inward like smoke.

Bas is tearing cloth, packing the wound. “Keep your eyes open,” he orders.

Blood soaks through the cloth the moment he presses it down. He adds another layer. Then another. His hands shake.

“This is not working,” he says, and I hear the fracture in his voice.

My fellow Strigon is one of the greatest healers this world has ever known, but I see the truth on his face. The wounds are too deep.

Rhianelle cradles my head against her chest, her silver hair falling around us like a curtain and creating one final, private world. Just the two of us.

“Stay with me,” she whispers desperately. “Please, Arescaine. Just stay.”

I want to.