Page 73 of Whispers of Ruin

Muted. Like I am watching myself from somewhere else, floating just above this bleeding, broken corpse…

“Fuck, Mira!”

His voice slices through the. Xan falls to his knees beside me, and suddenly, the world crashes back into focus—all just agony and trembling limbs.

I blink slowly, barely able to move my head. At least I can see him.

The way his hands hover inches above my body, terrified to hurt me more. The frantic way his chest rises and falls, like he has forgotten how to breathe. The way he whispers my name again and again, as if it is both a question and a plea.

“Mira… no. No, no—please!”

His voice breaks. Not cracks.Breaksas his entire soul is crumbling from the inside out.

I want to reach for him. I want to tell him I am still here—barely, but here. My lips are too dry, my throat too raw, and the blood loss has turned my limbs to stone. I can feel it leaving me.

Life. Warmth. Color.

My fingers twitch. That’s all I can manage. It is enough to catch his attention. His eyes meet mine through the holes in his mask.

A mask I have seen in dreams, in nightmares, in memories I tried to bury.

This time though… he looks scared. Not for himself. For me. His whole body is shaking now.

“Don’t—don’t do this to me, baby,” he cries. “I’m here. I’m here, little fox—just stay with me. Please, fuck!”

I realize the cold. The slipping.

Air barely comes. My vision darkens around the sides. I cannot hold on much longer. The panic wells up in my chest like a tidal wave that never breaks.

“I…” I breathe, lips barely moving. “I don’t want to die, Xan.”

He freezes.

For one heartbeat—maybe two—he does not move at all. Then slowly, shakily, Xan reaches for his mask. His fingers hesitate.

He is afraid.

Afraid of what I’ll see.

Afraid that it is too late.

Afraid that if he takes it off, this moment will be too real.

With a shuddering exhale, he pulls the mask from his face.

I finally see him.

His hair is wild, damp with sweat and speckled in blood. His jaw is clenched like it’s the only thing holding him together. And his eyes—God, his eyes—are gorgeously devastated.

There is a tear trailing down his cheek, carving a path through the dirt and blood like it has nowhere else to go. He looks at me as if he is watching the sun die.

“Mira… I love you.”

It is not a declaration. It is a surrender. A truth he has held for too long. It lands between us with the weight of everything we never said.

I try to answer. I try so hard. Instead, I give him the only thing I have left—My gaze.

Full of everything I did not get to say.

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