Page 192 of Wings of Ash & Flame
The binds around her magic, the ones she thought sealed forever, began to loosen.
She clung to every memory of him: their dance at the Celestial Cascade Ball, the way he’d looked at her; her first flight with him and Beck; the vulnerability in his eyes when they sat by the fire. How he’d never called her broken or dangerous, but exquisite.
How he had always seen her—even when she couldn’t see herself. How he made her feel like she was enough. More than enough. Like she was everything.
Light flared under her palm, warmth growing with each memory.
“Please,” she whispered, pouring everything she had into that single word. “Please, don’t leave me.”
Suddenly, energy surged—wild and uncontrollable—clamoring for release from the confines of her flesh. It felt like coming home.
An outline of white-hot flame ignited beneath the palm pressed to Dawson’s wound. Waves of warmth flowed fromAlaire’s hand, seeping directly into the injury. This wasn’t like that first spark of aether she’d experienced. This was gentler.
It felt like liquid sunlight.
Somehow, she could sense the torn flesh, fractured rib bones, and blood that needed to be staunched. Her breath came in gasps as she directed the aether to mend what was broken, knit tissue, alter destiny’s plight, and restore what once had life.
The power surging through her was unlike anything she had ever known. The white light molded around the fracture, coaxing the pieces back into place. Alaire could’ve sworn she heard the faintcreakof bone knitting together. She envisioned fibers of muscle weaving whole again, forged like a blacksmith hammering steel. Fire coursed through her veins as more of her poured into Dawson’s wound. Faintly, she felt the steady incline of his heartbeat.
“Astounding,” she thought she heard, though the voice was warped, distant.
The light continued to permeate, and she felt the tension beneath his skin, stretched taut. At last, Dawson’s breathing steadied. But every second drained her further.
With trembling hands, she pulled back—and to her astonishment, the wound had closed completely. Where infected gashes had been, pale pink scars now marked his chest. No swelling. No angry red lines.
Color returned to his cheeks, chasing away the ashen grey that had whispered Umbra’s claim.
Exhaustion crashed through her, but relief steadied her. He was alive. Because ofhermagic.
She met Solflara’s golden amber eyes—pride shone down the bond.
Her body screamed for rest, but she clung to consciousness. He was alive. That was all that mattered.
“It’s not your fault, Alaire.”
Dawson’s gruff voice startled her.
Her head snapped up. His turquoise eyes were open, trained on her with an intensity that made her want to hide behind her hands. His dark hair, disheveled and loose, framed his face—but he was undeniably, beautifully alive.
He wasn’t supposed to have heard her desperate whispers.
“I thought you were asleep,” she said, voice small. That’s exactly how she felt.
He blinked slowly, weak but steady. “I was drifting in and out…”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “How much of that did you hear exactly?” she asked, staring at the ceiling instead of his knowing gaze.
“Enough,” he said softly. “Enough to learn about the scope of your pain, the depth of your grief. Enough to hear you pleading with me not to leave.”
Her heart stuttered. The raw desperation she’d poured out, thinking he couldn’t hear?—
“Dawson,” she whispered.
When she finally looked back, he was smiling. Not his usual smirk, but something infinitely gentler. His hands lifted to cradle her face, fingers weaving through her hair, thumbs brushing away tears she hadn’t realized were falling. Even weakened, his touch was steady. Grounding.
“Firework,” he murmured, lips brushing her cheek in a soft kiss. “Thank you for saving me. For fighting so hard to bring me back.”
Her fingers slipped into his silken hair, idly toying with the dark strands—until she realized what she was doing and snatched them back.
