THE UNBROKEN

It was a quiet morning.

Niegal slept, his breathing low and deep. Elena never once left his side, whispering to him how strong he was, how much she loved him, the things they'd do together once this cursed war was finally over.

Their hands stayed intertwined, a grounding warmth that tethered them both to the now.

Aurora was more than happy to take Esperanza, who refused to let go of her skirts. They were at the other side of camp, playing with the other children, far from the shadows crawling toward the medic tent.

Elena hummed a lullaby she usually sang for Esperanza. It seemed to help him sleep better.

But then came the change.

It was sudden.

Niegal's eyes flew open- too fast, too wide.

He convulsed once.

Pain: hot, immediate, and wrong, exploded in his stomach and throat. He tried to breathe but choked. His body seized.

The world spun sideways as warmth flooded his mouth. No… not warmth. Blood. Too much of it. Pouring, not pulsing.

His chest burned. His ribs shattered inward with every cough.

He heard her. Felt her.

"Mi amor, I'm here. I'm here," Elena's voice trembled, her hands gentle on his cheeks.

He wanted to look at her. He wanted to say her name.

But the pain.

The pain was devouring him.

She wrenched his face to the side. "No, no, no- turn your head, love, turn- "

He tried. Gods, he tried. But his body no longer obeyed.

Her hand pressed to his chest, light and shaking, and then froze.

He felt it too.

Not healing. Not his magic.

Something else.

A whisper. A hum. A cold, crawling pressure in his ribs.

This wasn't grace.

It was death.

A relic.

Siobhan's cursed relic.

A scream tore from Elena's throat. "HELP! SOMEONE GET IN HERE!"

The tent exploded in motion; healers, lightcasters, Behike herself, but their spells fizzled in the air. One of the healers tried to draw the curse out and screamed as her palms blackened. Another lit a warding circle and collapsed before finishing the chant.

Niegal couldn't scream.

His body buckled. His mouth frothed. His limbs spasmed like a puppet with severed strings.

He was dying again.

And this time, he was certain he wouldn't come back.

"Elena," he tried to say.

But all that came was more blood.

"Please," she begged, dropping to her knees beside him. "Please, gods… take me instead."

Her hands gripped his tighter, fingers slick with blood and tears. She pressed her lips to his knuckles.

"If there truly are gods… give him my life. There is no life without him."

No one answered.

So she screamed.

A final, desperate plea: "PLEASE!"

And the heavens cracked open.

Lightning struck.

A white-hot bolt of divine mana tore through the tent's peak, shredding the sky, splitting the warding circle in two with an explosion of light and flame. The healers were thrown back against the walls. The ground shook violently, cracks spiderwebbing out from the center.

But not louder than Elena.

Her body lifted off the ground, her hand still holding Niegal's. Her eyes glowed as power surged through her like a tidal wave.

She was the conduit.

Violet lightning crawled up her arms, over her face, her neck, her chest. Her scars lit like constellations. Mana surged from beneath the tent floor, through the cursed relic in Niegal's blood, and into her.

Niegal gasped.

The blood stopped flowing.

The curse lifted.

He was alive.

But Elena…

Let go of his hand.

Her body dropped to the floor in a sickening thud. Her back arched as power overwhelmed her senses. Her mouth opened wide in a silent scream, and she began to burn.

Magic flared over her skin, searing her flesh. Her scars cracked open like ritual sigils. Blood trickled from her mouth, her eyes. The rot that had threatened Niegal now welcomed her.

"Elena!" Niegal croaked, just barely conscious.

She didn't respond.

She was fighting something far deeper.

The healers rushed in again but her magic burned them. The air was thick with ozone, blood, and despair.

Only La Señora Behike remained close, chanting forbidden prayers, hands shaking as she pressed a trembling palm to Elena's chest.

"She's still breathing," she whispered. "But she's gone deep."

Deeper than prayer can reach.

Niegal fell out of the healers cot he laid in and crawled toward her. His limbs barely obeyed him. He touched her hand, slick with blood, and pressed it to his face.

"Elena," he whispered. "Don't leave me."

Her eyes opened for a moment—dim, violet, not quite herself.

She saw him.

She wept.

And then the shadows pulled her under.