Page 202 of Fallen Nocturne

“Thank you,” Rhianelle says into Blaire’s hair. “Thank you for fighting. Thank you for holding the line.”

“I couldn’t save them all,” Blaire mutters, and she’s crying now. “I tried. I tried so hard. But there were too many. My shields kept breaking. I kept breaking.”

“You did everything you could,” Rhianelle says. “You saved lives. So many lives.”

“Not enough,” Blaire whispers.

They hold each other for a long moment.

Finally, Rhianelle pulls back. “Where are the others? Aelfric, Lady Deirdre?”

“War camp,” Blaire says, gesturing weakly toward a cluster of tents in the distance. “Everyone who’s left is there. It’s... It’s not many, Rhianelle. We lost so many.”

Rhianelle nods and helps Blaire to her feet. “Come on. Let’s get you to the healers.”

“I am a healer,” Blaire says with a ghost of a smile.

“Then let’s get you to someone who can heal the healers,” Rhianelle replies.

We walk slowly toward the war camp. Rhianelle keeps one arm around Blaire, supporting her. After only a few steps, Rhianelle wobbles and nearly falls. Blaire catches her around the waist, somehow managing to hold them both upright.

Rhianelle lets out a breath that turns into a short laugh. “I thought I was supposed to be supporting you.”

“You were doing a terrible job of it,” Blaire replies.

They laugh together, quiet and exhausted, but for a moment the sound cuts through the misery surrounding us. I stay close, watching both of them.

I’m worried, Coinneach whispers.

My shadow familiar is right. Because I can see it now. The exhaustion radiating from Rhianelle. She’s been going nonstop. She summoned multiple monsters of Astefar for the battle, fought Lilith in the throne room, and crossed into the realm of death and back.

How the fuck is she going to fight Finnbheara at dawn? She can barely stand.

The war camp stretches across what used to be farmland. Tents crowd the scorched fields. Healers move between them, their white robes stained red.

We find a healer to take Blaire. Rhianelle looks around, searching.

“This way,” I say, guiding her toward a larger tent where I can sense several familiar presences.

Rhianelle steps inside and immediately recognizes one of the healers moving between the rows of wounded.

“Taryn.”

The young healer turns at the sound of her name. Her face is pale with exhaustion, and blood stains her hands up to the wrists.

“Where is Aelfric, Taryn?” she asks, her voice desperate.

“He’s alive, but critical,” the young healer says. “We’re doing everything we can.”

A weak voice calls from one of the bedrolls.

“Elven queen.”

Rhianelle turns. A young woman in Landon’s legion lies among the wounded, her face drained of color.

Rhianelle hurries to her side and drops to her knees. “What happened, Alys?”

“Nevrin poison,” Alys whispers. It’s the same kind that struck Rainer.