THE UNBROKEN

Elena lay curled on the shattered bed, bloodied sheets tangled beneath her. Her body trembled with every breath. The bite on her shoulder pulsed with pain. Deep, spiritual pain where the scar had once marked her rebirth.

And Niegal?

Gone.

After his final cry, he had leapt through the window into the street below, disappearing into the waking city like smoke.

Elena hadn't seen him since.

She couldn't move. Could barely think.

If she faced the truth, truly faced it, she would shatter.

Her child.

Her husband.

Lost to a land that kept trying to take what was hers. Over and over again.

Her eyes glowed faintly, then dimmed. She whispered a final prayer to the empty room as her consciousness faded:

"Niegal… Esperanza…"

And then she slept.

Alone.

When Niegal came to, he was sprawled naked on the cold, wet sand beneath the docks of Port Clairy.

The sky above him churned with gray clouds. Gulls circled far above, their cries shrill and distant. His chest rose and fell, shallow, dazed.

He sat up slowly, head pounding, temples throbbing with the pressure of something ancient and unrelenting. The glowing sigil carved into the center of his chest, normally faint and warm, now pulsed with a searing brightness, as though it had awakened.

His fingers dug into the sand. The world tilted.

Where was he?

More importantly —

Where was Elena?

And then,

Like a thunderclap through his skull-

It all came back.

The kiss.

The moonlight.

Elena's voice trembling. Her hands trembling.

The sound of fabric tearing. The way she screamed when he-

The bite.

He doubled over, dry heaving until his body shook. There was nothing in his stomach but bile and regret.

The taste of her blood lingered in his mouth.

Back in the tavern, Elena stood stiffly at the counter, hair wild and cheeks pale. Her cloak was hastily thrown over her torn clothing, and the shoulder where the bite had landed throbbed beneath the fabric.

She was apologizing, voice flat, for the broken window. For the shattered bed. For the claw marks gouged deep into the wood floors.

The innkeeper, clearly unsettled but trying to keep their composure, took the gold with trembling hands. The moment the coin hit the counter, they said, "You need to leave. Now."

And then he came running in.

Niegal burst through the door, breath ragged, clothes hastily thrown on, rain-soaked and barefoot. He skidded to a stop at the threshold.

Elena froze.

Just for a moment.

Thunder cracked outside, shaking the walls of the old tavern.

No words passed between them.

The innkeeper hurried out the back, giving them space. Or, perhaps, just fleeing the tension in the air.

Elena's body was perfectly still. She swallowed hard, then grabbed one of their packs and slung it over her good shoulder. The motion made her wince. The bite pulsed deep into her scar tissue, and no magic she tried could ease it.

Niegal stood like a ghost at the door, soaked and trembling, watching her.

She couldn't meet his eyes.

"We should get moving," she said. Her voice was emotionless. Neutral. Perfectly controlled.

Niegal stepped forward, gently reaching for her wrist. "Elena…"

But her magic flared instantly. Her eyes glowed violet, streaked with gold. The Blade of Boinayel began to hum on her back with low thunder, its obsidian core catching the stormlight from the windows.

Tears streamed down her face, hot and silent.

She didn't yell.

She didn't push him away.

She simply turned , glowing, powerful, and heartbreakingly quiet, and walked toward the exit.

She could have said anything.

But she didn't have the words. Not yet.

Because the truth was:

She hadn't been able to heal the bite. Not last night. Not this morning.

He had bitten through a place already marked by violence, by memory. It was more than skin and blood. It was history, grief, sacrifice.

So she let the skies speak for her.

The thunder grumbled as if echoing her heart. Lightning traced the horizon in staccato flashes.

Niegal didn't stop her this time.

He gathered what little they had left. Slinging his cloak and gear over his shoulder, he followed. Quiet. Ashamed. Reverent.

He didn't reach for her hand.

He didn't speak again.

The two of them walked down the slick streets of Port Clairy, side by side.

Side by side, but worlds apart.