Page 285 of Emylia

I was not human.

I was wrath incarnate.

And I smiled.

Because deep in my soul, I knew—this was only the beginning.

I would bring armies to their knees.

I would turn empires to ash.

And when I was done—the Gods themselves would weep.

But for now, I wouldn’t stop until the world remembered—Agertheria did not fall without fire.

ChapterSixty-Three

“Emylia.”

The word barely reached me.

Maalikai’s voice was low. Wrecked.

I turned.

He was kneeling, cradling Thrainn’s hand. My uncle’s body was crumpled beneath him, chest heaving, blood pooling beneath his frame like a spreading shadow.

Collapsed. Broken. Drowning in his own blood.

A wet cough escaped him. Then a gurgle. Then?—

“Uncle.”

I dropped beside him, grabbed his blood-soaked hand and held on like I could anchor his soul in his body with grip alone.

His eyes met mine.

Dark. Hollow. Dimming.

He was slipping.

His body was a ruin—sliced, pierced, leaking life onto the dirt. A trail of smeared blood showed where he’d dragged himself, just to kill one last bastard before collapse.

His voice came in fragments, rasped and gory. “Don’t… waste time… on me.”

“No.” My voice cracked. “We can get you out. We’ll carry you. Please, Uncle, just—just hold on.”

He didn’t hear me. Or maybe he did, and he was already letting go.

“Make sure Triska… the girls…” he whispered. A single tear carved a clean path down the blood-caked ruin of his face.

“You’re going to be okay.” My breath caught as I pressed my hands to the wound in his stomach. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

But he pushed me away with the last of his strength. His hand was trembling, sticky with blood, and still trying to be gentle.

“It’s too late,” he murmured. “I know it. And so do you.”

“No.”

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