Rain fell like nails.
Zeyr's boots splashed through the flooded trail as he carried Aeryn down the broken slope of the shrine path. Her body in his arms was too light, too still. Her head lolled against his chest, skin pale beneath the soft glow that still flickered faintly beneath her ribcage. Each heartbeat set the divine glyphs along her spine pulsing, out of rhythm, like a failing lantern.
The vines of the mountain swayed violently in the storm, slashing at his scales. Lightning split a dead pine in half ahead of him, but Zeyr didn't flinch. He pushed on, breathing hard through his nose, tasting the rot and iron in the air.
She groaned once—barely audible—but it lit something in him.
"I have you," he whispered, not knowing if he was lying.
Downhill.
Through the trees.
His feet slipped twice on moss-slick roots, but he never dropped her.
At the bottom of the ridge, beneath the sheltering corpse of an old windmill, he set her down beside a rain-drowned fire pit. He crouched and tore a pouch from his belt with his teeth—runes scorched onto the leather—then unsheathed a small curved blade from his boot.
A thin red cut along his palm. Blood welled, thick and black-green.
He dipped two fingers in and drew a symbol over her chest. It shimmered, hissed against the divine glyphwork already on her.
Her body bucked.
He held her down.
The sigils clashed—poison and light writhing against each other.
He gritted his teeth. "Come back to me."
The mark dimmed. Her breathing steadied. Shallow, but real.
Zeyr collapsed beside her.
Rain sheeted down over both of them.
He carried her for another hour. By the time he reached the edge of the rebel camp, the storm had passed. Fog hung low, thick enough to make faces dissolve until you were inches from them.
The guards let him through on sight—no questions, no ceremony.
By the time they reached the central command tent, a small crowd had gathered. Murmurs spread fast.
"What happened?"
"Is she alive?"
"What did he do to her?"
Zeyr laid Aeryn gently onto a bedroll and stood.
One of the captains—Bran Vek, a hard-eyed man with ash-grey hair and a face carved by old wars—stepped forward.
"What happened?"
"She collapsed."
"During the mission?"
"No," Zeyr said. "Later. She was... attacked. From within."
Bran's jaw tightened.
"The glyphs flared again?"
Zeyr nodded.
Bran looked at Aeryn for a long time, then at Zeyr. "Leave us."
"No."
Bran bristled. "You forget your rank."
"I remember what she said. I stay."
Bran stared. Weighed him.
Then turned. "Fine. But one wrong breath—"
"I only breathe when necessary."
Aeryn awoke at dawn.
Her eyes flickered open like a door half-cracked, and her first sound was a long, slow exhale.
Zeyr was sitting nearby, cross-legged, eyes half-closed.
"Still here?" she rasped.
"Always."
She winced. "My chest feels like fire and frost had a bastard child."
He nodded once. "I suppressed the flare. It'll return."
She looked down at her hands. They were steady.
"I almost killed you," she whispered.
"You tried."
"I'm sorry."
He shook his head. "Don't be."
She turned her face toward him.
"I saw your eyes. During the fight."
"They didn't lie."
"No," she said softly. "They never have."
She tried to sit up. He helped her.
For a while, they just sat like that. Quiet.
Then she asked, "Do you still mean to bring it all down?"
"Yes."
"Even me?"
His voice was quiet. "Not you."
"You can't separate us," she whispered. "Not anymore."
"I will try."
She touched his face.
"You'll fail."
He took her hand in his. Held it.
"I'd rather fail with you than succeed without."
They kept their reunion secret.
To the rebels, she had merely collapsed from divine backlash. They believed it—because they wanted to.
Hope needed her.
And hope was an expensive drug.
Zeyr knew it wouldn't last.
Three nights later, it ended.
The capital sent a summons.
Not a message. A command.
The High Choir called for a public Cleansing Ceremony—one meant to re-sanctify Aeryn and affirm her obedience.
Attendance was mandatory.
For everyone.
Including the rebels.
Zeyr stood beside her in the staging tent on the outskirts of the Sanctum Plaza, hidden in the shadow of a crumbling marble fountain. Imperial banners draped the buildings like bloodstained veils. A sea of bodies filled the square—citizens, nobles, acolytes—all assembled to watch a saint recommit her soul.
Aeryn adjusted the straps of her ceremonial armor. The white light weaving through the threads flickered like nervous fireflies.
Zeyr's hand found hers. Brief. Grounding.
"I'll walk with you," he said.
She nodded.
But she didn't smile.
She didn't have any smiles left.
The ceremony was a theater of light.
Golden ropes of energy wove from the lips of the chanting priests, binding Aeryn's body like a cocoon. She knelt on a polished obsidian disc in the center of the Sanctum plaza, ringed by chanting High Clerics.
And then the Emperor's voice rang out.
Smooth. Clear. Piercing.
"This soul was once impure. It was given a second chance. A sacred breath."
He stood on the high platform, surrounded by celestial guards, face hidden behind the Veil of Solace.
"But a soul must prove itself. Or it must be returned."
A sword was lowered into Aeryn's hands.
She didn't take it.
Zeyr was in the crowd, disguised again, near the front.
The Emperor raised a hand.
A figure stepped from the wings of the platform.
Zeyr's illusion trembled.
It was General Vaelor Dazari.
Her father.
His armor was scorched. His halberd gleamed.
He spoke: "Saint Aeryn of the Light Reborn. Prove your purity. Execute the unclean."
A man was dragged forward from the crowd.
Zeyr's body went cold.
It was him.
Not really. But a double. A man shaped like him. Scaled. Green. Someone the Empire had tortured, twisted into mimicry.
Aeryn stared.
Then looked out at the crowd.
She met Zeyr's real eyes.
Just once.
And the world stopped.
She rose slowly.
Walked toward the platform.
Took the blade.
Raised it.
The crowd held its breath.
And then—she turned.
She stabbed the fake through the heart.
The crowd gasped.
The priests cheered.
Zeyr did not move.
But something inside him broke.
Not from what she did.
From the look in her eyes as she did it.
No remorse.
Only resignation.
She was killing herself slowly. Piece by piece.
He had to end it.
He stepped forward.
The illusion fell away.
The crowd screamed.
Guards surged.
Aeryn froze.
Their eyes locked.
Zeyr lifted his hands.
And whispered a name.
Yasshal.
The wind screamed.
The square cracked.
Flowers of rot bloomed from the stones.
And then everything was chaos.
The final duel did not happen in secret.
It happened on the stage of the world.
And when it ended—
She was dying in his arms.
Her light fading.
His poison burning through her skin.
Tears slid down her cheek.
"I remember everything," she whispered.
"I never forgot," he said.
"I'm not afraid," she breathed.
"I am," he whispered.
She smiled, one last time.
"Then hold me."
He did.
She died.
And he did not scream.
He only stood.
And turned.
Toward the Emperor.
And walked.
---