THE UNBROKEN

There was no more time in the dark.

No morning. No night.

No breath that wasn't labored.

No pain that wasn't holy.

Niegal no longer felt the lashes. He no longer flinched when they dragged the blade across his skin or carved slurs into his chest like scripture.

El Léon Negro

Bastardo

Herético

He didn't fight anymore, no endurance left.

He didn't scream.

He just… wept.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered through cracked lips, blood mingling with spit. "I miss you… I'm so sorry… I failed you…"

Every prayer became a death wish.

Every breath a betrayal.

If he had been strong enough, he would've ended it himself.

That's when the blade appeared.

The Blade of Marohu.

It shimmered in the dark like lightning suspended in time. No voice. No thunder. Just silence and a soft hum, like distant drums under the earth. He stared at it, eyes wide, unable to believe. Was it mercy? Punishment? Another hallucination from the brink of madness?

He reached for it with trembling fingers-

And his body gave out.

The chains above him groaned, his wrists torn raw, head lolling forward. Breath shallow.

He was gone.

Broken.

Nothing left but blood and fever and a soul ready to fade.

He begged.

"Please… just end it. Let me see her. Let me see our daughter. Let me… die…"

But something stirred.

Something real.

Not a blade.

Not a god.

Her.

She came like a storm reborn in human form.

Hair wild. Eyes blind but burning. Her body limping from past wounds, and yet- undeniably her.

Elena.

The Blade of Boinayel wept rain at her side as she burst through the doors, freezing for a moment before a roar tore from her lips. Her silhouette was backlit by fire, blood clinging to her like war paint.

She did not hesitate.

With a cry that echoed off marble and bone, she swung the blade.

CRACK

The mana-forged chains shattered.

Niegal collapsed into her arms. She could barely catch him before his body hit the floor.

He didn't react. Couldn't. He was too far gone.

But her touch- gods, her touch.

She fell to her knees, dragging him close, cradling his brutalized body, bloodied fingers brushing hairless skin.

"I promised I'd find you," she sobbed, holding his head against her chest. "Please… stay with me, mi Léon."

Her tears splattered onto his face like summer rain. They ran down into the carvings on his chest. His lips cracked, barely moved.

But then, he smiled.

That soft, aching smile of a man who'd seen heaven in a war zone.

"Don't look at me like that," she whispered, voice shattered. "I'm no goddess. It's just me."

"Grateful…" he breathed. "For one last sight…"

And then he collapsed in her arms. Barely breathing.

The chamber fell silent.

Even the Inquisition, even the priest-militants, even the Children of the Storm and Lion- they all stopped. Witnesses to something too raw to look at directly.

A woman holding her dying husband, begging him not to leave her again.

Her weeping echoed through the stone.

And then-

Slaughter.

The silence shattered.

The Children surged.

Not one priest was spared.

Not one Inquisitor survived.

The walls were painted red in seconds.

And through it all, Elena refused to let go.

DAYS PRIOR:

The march had been slow. Wounded. Grieving. But relentless.

Alejandro and Aurora had arrived with the full might of the Coabey Coalition and United Territories of Yidali. They did not speak when they saw Elena.

They wept.

So did Esperanza, her little arms flinging toward her aunt, burying her face in Aurora's neck. Aurora held her as if she would never let go again.

But their skin- gods, their skin.

Darkened and raw, kissed by fire, scarred with ash. They were no longer the bright, fierce royals of old. They were something else entirely.

Alive.

Later, in silence, Elena meditated with La Señora Behike.

And there, in the quiet hush of the glade, the Blade of Boinayel rested in her lap. Weeping rain.

She understood then.

The gods had not abandoned her.

They had turned her into a weapon.

"We attack at night," Elena said, voice low. Her eyes could no longer see the world—but she felt it more clearly than ever. "We go save my love. Even if I have to die to do it."

No one argued. They didn't dare.

She trained for hours. Every movement aching. Her nerves screamed. Her arms trembled. But she learned to wield the blade not with magic- but with memory, with sheer force of will.

She became the storm once more.

Not as a goddess.

But as a woman with nothing left to lose.

Elena's boots were soaked in blood before she crossed the compound's first threshold.

The storm had followed them to Port Clairy- heavy skies, lightning clinging to the horizon like breath on glass. She could barely hear anything but the pounding in her chest and the soft whisper of her machete, the Blade of Boinayel, singing for justice.

No. For vengeance.

This wasn't just a rescue mission. It was a reckoning.

Alejandro led the charge through the outer gates with silent efficiency. The others followed in tight formation; cloaked, veiled, disciplined. But Elena… Elena was wrath incarnate.

Every step hurt. Her bones still sang with the echo of the trap that nearly killed her. No magic or mana coursed through her, the Blade of Boinyanel had plenty for them both. She could feel it ripping through her veins with every breath. But it didn't matter.

He was here.

She felt it the moment they crossed the threshold of the church's compound- her whole body responding like a struck tuning fork.

Niegal.

He was alive. Or had been.

And they had him.

She didn't remember killing the guards. Only the way the blade sliced through them like water through silk. She didn't remember when Alejandro shouted for her to wait, only the moment the holy wards at the heart of the prison flared and she burst through them anyway.

The moment the door to the questioning chamber flew open-

… her world collapsed.

He was there.

Suspended. Chained.

His head bowed. His hair, gods, his hair-

Gone.

His skin was barely skin anymore. A ruin of welts, swollen carvings, blistered glyphs and broken flesh. Someone had branded his chest, his neck, even his thighs. The scent of burned bone filled the room. And his voice, his beautiful voice, was ragged and wrong.

He was begging. For death.

And he didn't even see her.

"Niegal," she breathed, the name catching in her throat like glass. Her knees nearly gave out.

Then something inside her cracked.

She roared:

"GET AWAY FROM HIM!"

The Blade of Boinyanel thundered and sparked in response.

Chains fell like paper under her blade. He collapsed before she could catch him fully, his body a dead weight, already halfway gone.

Elena dropped the Blade of Boinayel and cradled him in her arms, heedless of the blood soaking through her clothes, of the bodies behind her, of the war still raging in the hallways beyond.

"Mi Léon…" she whispered, brushing blood from his eyes with trembling fingers. She pulled his head to her chest, to hear her heartbeat. "I promised I'd find you. Please… stay with me, mi Léon."

He stirred faintly, his breath a rasp, a ghost of what it once was. And then, his eyes fluttered open.

He looked at her.

He saw her.

And he smiled.

It shattered her.

"No, no, don't smile like that," she choked, clutching him to her chest. "I'm not a goddess. Don't look at me like that. It's just me. It's always been me."

His lips barely moved, cracked and bloodied, but she heard it:

"Grateful…" he breathed. "For one last sight…"

Then he went still.

Not dead. Not yet. But she felt how close it was, how thin the thread had become.

Her scream cracked the air like thunder. She clutched him tighter, rocking him. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare leave me." Her voice broke, fragile and wild. "Please… stay with me. Stay with me."

And something, everything, in the room changed.

The world held its breath.

The fighting in the chamber stilled. The last of the Inquisition, wounded or weeping, stood silent. Even the Children of the Storm and Lion paused, blades raised, watching their leader fall apart.

And in that single, breathless moment- Elena's grief became divine.

Then she looked up.

Her hair wild, her body blood-soaked, her arms holding the shattered man she loved-

And her eyes were pure stormlight.

She did not speak.

But the Children of the Storm and Lion heard her anyway.

Finish it.

And they did.

No lives were spared.

None.

Blood ran from the chamber steps to the sanctified halls, holy altars cracked in two. Every last priest-militant fell with the cries of saints dying on their lips.

But Elena didn't see it.

All she saw was Niegal.

Now:

They carried Niegal out of the compound on a makeshift stretcher, wrapped in bloodied cloth.

Elena walked beside him, gripping his hand. Blind and weeping, stumbling with every step, but refusing to fall. Her blade soaked the ground beneath them, seemingly weeping for him, too.

Her body ached. Her sight blurred. Her mind spun.

But her hand never left his.

"Please," he murmured once, lips barely moving. "Please, don't leave me…"

She pressed her broken fingers to his cheek, tears falling freely.

"I'm here," she whispered. "I found you."

They didn't collapse until they reached the safehouse: the old stone ruins where they had once made love under starlight and summer wind.

Now there was no magic in the air.

Just blood.

And silence.

She knelt beside him, still holding his hand.

No one said a word.

The warriors, the healers, the priests- they all knelt too.

Not before gods.

But before two mortals broken by war.

No longer storm and lion.

Just a woman and a man.

And for the first time since the explosion; together.