Page 130 of Dark Fate

As the air shimmers with the summoning of my portal, Seraphina swiftly interjects, her voice laced with a prudent warning, "Not advisable."

Pressing her, my voice tight with urgency, "Why not?"

Seraphina's voice carries the weight of the heavens as she addresses the gravity of the situation, "Portals are unpredictable elements; they can be as wild as gambles cast in the dark. Creating an opening here could provide Azrael a direct path to our location, a danger we cannot entertain."

My resolve is ironclad, even as my insides contort in anguish at the mere thought of what he might be enduring. "But Rhyland—"

"I will send you back," Seraphina interrupts, sensing my urgency.

Before I can protest or thank her, Atheria's light evaporates, and the opulence fades into grim shadows.

My feet hit the hard stone with a thud, and suddenly, I'm choking on the dank, stale air instead of breathing in Atheria's sweetness—real nice move, sis—no heads up, no goodbye, just a famous celestial Uber.

My eyes struggle to pierce the darkness shrouding this place like a living entity.

What kind of voodoo shit did she pull? Is there some cosmic fine print that's going to bite me in the ass for her superhero catch and release? Or even more terrifying—what's the karmic blowback for Jophiel slipping me the Atherite stone at this juncture in my epic quest, assuming that was even part of the grand master plan?

No time to fret over the potential divine ramifications now, though.

I notice I'm back in my leathers, hugging every curve. I feel the weight of the daggers strapped to my thighs, cozy as ever in their sheaths.

Then, a familiar scent hits me, stopping my breath. Rhyland. His scent is faint but unmistakable, cutting through the stale air. I wave my hand, summoning a ball of light, desperate to lay eyes on him.

The cell flickers into view, harsh and unforgiving. And there, chained up like a slab of meat in a butcher's fridge, hangs Rhyland. My heart lurches. They've got my Viking trussed up and suspended from the ceiling. Anger flashes hotly through my veins.

"Rhyland," his name—only a whisper in this dark cell.

His once strong form is now a canvas of pain—battered, bloodied, and bruised. The sight makes something inside me crack, and my heart doesn't just break. It shatters. Splintering into a thousand tiny pieces, each one crying out in anger and hurt for him.

"Oh my god—Rhyland!" His name bursts from me, tearing through the silence of the cell as I sprint to him—my voice cracks, raw with emotion. I reach him in what feels like a heartbeat, hands shaking as I grip his face, urging him to look at me. "Please, Rhyland, look at me." My plea is a whisper against the cold stone and colder reality we're facing.

His injuries are severe—this isn't just flesh and bruises; there's a torment here that runs deeper than skin. He's unresponsive and doesn't even flinch at my touch when I'm used to at least getting a growl.

I can't—I won't—lose him. Not like this, not when we've only just started rewriting our forever.

Determination ignites within me, a fire fueled by love and desperation. I summon my light, that raw, instinctive magic that thrums in my veins, and focus it into a ball of pure intention. My arm arcs forward, the light responding to my unspoken command, and I hurl it at the damned chains suspending him.

With a force that vibrates through the chamber, the light collides with the cold metal. The chains shatter, the sound of liberation ringing loudly in my ears, and his body drops. He lands with a heart-breaking thud on the hard stone, and I'm there, scrambling to his side even before the echo fades.

"Rhyland, sweetie...wake up." My voice softens, brushing against the hard lines of desperation. With newfound energy coursing through my being, I coax the remaining chains around his wrists to surrender. This time, they fall away with less ceremony, clinking against the dungeon floor.

The collar around his neck—that cursed piece of iron and evil—snags my gaze, and I see nothing but red. A surge of fury tightens my grip, and my other hand is already moving toward my wrist, offering the one thing I know can mend more than just his physical wounds.

I press my wrist to his pale lips, the warmth of my skin stark against his colder-than-night kiss. "Rhyland, come on, drink... please," I plead, my voice a tight whisper of urgency. "You need this. I need you."

My heart races as I watch him remain still, unresponsive to my pleas. With desperation clawing at my chest, I grab my dagger and slice open my wrist, blood spurting out in thick rivulets. My hand shakes as I press it against his lips, urging him to drink from the wound.

He doesn't move as my warm blood trickles down his chin. I begin to panic. But then—finally, he begins to wrap his chapped lips around my bleeding wrist, slowly sucking the life-giving liquid into his mouth. "Yes," I whisper with a mixture of relief and fear. "There you go."

He gulps down my blood with reckless abandon, his body shaking. I reach out with my free hand to brush back his unkempt hair, but he suddenly grips my wrist like a starving man. A soft whimper escapes his lips, and the sound threatens to break me as I witness the depths of his anguish.

Just as I'm convinced he's had enough of what I am giving him, I yank my wrist away and quickly wrap it with a torn cloth, my eyes narrowing on that cursed collar. With a surge of will, I call forth my light, unleashing it once more upon the accursed device, and witness it shatter, crumbling to the dungeon floor.

"Hey..." my voice is gentle. Rhyland's eyelids finally lift, and I breathe a sigh of relief to see the familiar, beautiful, stormy blues of his eyes—silently whispering thanks to the heavens.

"Angel—" he rasps out, his voice coming through shredded and gritty as if each syllable were being forced through a gravel bed.

"Yeah, I'm right here," I respond, and faster than a pulse, he's up and lifting me with him, wrapping me in an embrace as unyielding as steel, pressing me against the distant wall with exhilarating force.

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