Page 175 of The Blood Rites

“You’re not worth it.”

Every time I hear Kael’s name in her voice, I push harder.

The false Kael stands at a fork in the tunnel, arms open, promising comfort or death—I can’t tell which. I turn away, but the shadow follows, walking alongside me for a dozen steps before flickering out. I lose track of time. I lose track of everything but the pain.

I want water. The need for it eclipses everything else. But there’s nothing here but fire and blood and the taste of ash in the air.

Sometimes the tunnels widen into chambers full of jagged rock, the ceiling so far above I can’t see it through churning smoke. In one, I hear a scream echo through the stone, but it’s not mine, not this time. I imagine it’s Serraith. Or Atheron. But maybe it’s just the cave remembering old deaths.

The further I go, the more my mind breaks apart. I am walking beside myself, watching my ruined body stumble through the world. Kael will come for me. He said he would. There will be an end to this.

I want to stop so badly, to lie down and let the heat consume me. The voice says, “Do it. Just be done with this.” It would be so easy.

But I don’t stop. I won’t.

When the tunnel finally opens up, I meet disaster. My foot lands on soft ash instead of stone, and the whole world collapses beneath me. I tumble down a steep slope, rolling over and over, my burned skin scraping against the grit. I try to catch myself, but my hands can’t close around anything. Every time I hit a rock, my ribs flare and my bones shift. I’m not sure if they’re broken or just unwilling to hold together any longer.

The slope ends in a narrow slit of daylight—no, not daylight. It’s the glare of open flame. I punch through the gap and drop through the floor, tumbling again before landing on my side on a shelf of black rock. The impact knocks the air from my lungs.

I lie there, gasping, staring up at the death counter. The number is still twelve.

When I roll over, the world resolves.

This is a stage, built for violence. The ceiling is lost in smoke and shimmering heat, lit from beneath by a river of liquid fire that splits the chamber down the middle. The walls shine like obsidian glass, overlapped in jagged sheets. The cracks catch the pinkish light spilling from the Mother Shard’s crown and her death counter above.

It pulses steadily—twelve.

Still twelve. Still alive.

The fight is already everywhere. There’s no build-up, no time to process. Just instant, breathtaking brutality: Atheron and Serraith on the far side of the river, both wreathed in blinding orange flames, their movements choreographed and precise. Kael and Vaelis stand on the near bank, not twenty paces from me, holding the line. Shadow and flame tear at each other across the span.

Kael is the first to notice me. Our eyes meet, and he breaks from the battle so fast he leaves a shape of himself behind. For a moment, the world stops. The pain, the fire, the noise—none of it matters.

He’s alive. He’s here.

Then the world restarts. Serraith yells a warning as Atheron unleashes a jet of fire across the gap. But Kael is already moving, crossing the stone toward me in long, desperate strides.

I try to stand, but my legs won’t cooperate. I crawl, dragging myself towards the edge of the fight.

Kael reaches me first, hands already on me, and for a second, I am back in the dream—unsure if he will break me or hold me, or both.

His fingers hunt for unbroken skin. They find none, so they settle at my collarbone, trembling just enough that I feel it through the burns.

“Little rabbit,” he says, voice so quiet I barely hear it over the battle.

I try to answer, but the only sound that comes out is a whimper.

“What happened to you?” he whispers, as if the words cost him something.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes. My throat is scorched and shredded raw. I shake my head, the world swimming in and out. “I... couldn't get out.”

He moves his hands down, finding my wrists. He turns them over carefully, like he’s afraid they’ll fall off. His mouth twists, his jaw going so tight I hear a molar crack.

He studies the damage, adding up the burns and wounds and arriving at a sum he cannot bear. For one fleeting second, his whole face goes blank, all feeling sucked out of it. Then in the next breath, it all comes flooding back, too much to contain.

He stands without looking at me again, then turns, slow and terrifying, back to the river of fire.

The change in him is absolute.