93

EZRA

Two days ago, I woke up chained to Malik.

Now, we’re being marched toward the amphitheatre—the outside hearing court—like dogs on display. Or sacrifices. Or both.

My mind’s been blank since.

Not the kind of blank that feels peaceful. No. It’s the kind that scrapes you clean inside, leaves nothing behind but static and the distant memory of pain. It’s easier that way, easier than trying to hold onto what I saw just before he dragged me back into hell and gave me nothing but water laced with Virex—vampire poison in liquid form.

Tasteless, but brutal. It burns down my throat and scorches my insides just enough to keep me conscious but weak. No blood. No reprieve. Just time and rot and the metallic ache of power draining from my bones.

Blood’s been seeping from my pores for hours now, my body rejecting itself, my veins drying out. Malik said something earlier. Maybe a joke. Maybe a prayer. I didn’t hear it, simply can't.

The blood lust is overwhelming that I'd considered drinking from him but then, I shrug it off when I remember virex flows in his vein too.

But fuck, I deserve this.

Every second of it.

And whatever comes next.

They lead us out from the underhold gates and into the open. The sound hits me first.

Voices.

Too many of them.

The amphitheatre is packed. Rows upon rows of vampires—elders, citizens, warriors, scavengers—every faction represented. A sea of red eyes and sharp teeth and some wings, all here to watch the fallen princes face the law we once helped uphold.

Their murmurs rise the moment we step into the light.

“Is that really him?”

“He looks half-dead.”

“Serves him right.”

“Traitor.”

“Blood-craver.”

I don’t flinch.

I keep walking.

I let them see me. All of me.

The full shift.

The final form.

The monster Thea didn’t see the night the Nytherin attacked. The one I didn’t let her see. Not fully.

Now they see it.

Bone-pale skin laced with veins of black and crimson. Clawed hands. Eyes that burn too bright red, too cold. Fangs protruding even though I haven't fed in days. My wings—fractured, tattered, dragging behind me like the last remnants of a fallen god.

The hush ripples through the crowd.

They expected a prince.

I give them a nightmare.

Malik stumbles slightly behind me, muttering curses under his breath, glaring at the guard for pushing him too harshly. I don’t reach for him since there’s nothing left to offer.

We climb the steps toward the central podium, overlooking where the Council stands in their regal black robes, faces hard and emotionless. 

The twelfth elder’s throne sits empty.

And me?

I don’t need words to plead my case.

I just stand there.

And bleed. And wait.

Because whatever this is—this trial, this spectacle—it doesn’t matter.

Not without her.

And since she's gone… the punishment will finally fit the crime.

Finally, the first elder steps forward.

His robes are dark as rot, eyes frozen and lined with wrinkles that's devoid of anything close to warmth. I've never seen that old man smile.

“We gather today,” he begins, “to pass judgment on two of the Shadow Princes—Ezra Vale and Malik Sorrell—for the violation of one of the oldest pacts binding this world to balance.”

There's no sound from the crowd. Not yet. Just the wind cutting through bone and breath.

“Today’s concern lies heavily on the actions of the first prince, Ezra Vale. The fourth prince, Malik Sorrell, has already been sentenced. His punishment is final.”

I hear Malik huff beside me.

“You are cooked,” he mutters.

I don’t answer. I don’t even blink.

The elder lifts a hand.

“To the heads of the seven factions, step forward to cast your judgment. You will find your boxes before you. Let your verdict speak for your house.”

There's a shuffle and a beat of movement.

Then silence again as the boxes are drawn from a rift that opens before them.

One by one, they step up. Each chief. Each hand. Each vote.

No speeches. Just decisions. Final ones.

And when they were done… they return to their seats, all but the elder. The boxes stand like graves at his feet.

I feel it—finality—pressing into my chest like the lid of a coffin.

And still I say nothing.

A few heartbeats pass.

A few lifetimes, maybe.

Then the elder returns.

He opens each box with that same empty grace, inspecting the tokens inside which I guess to be bone, obsidian gem, silver, blood-coin, feather, flame.

One after the other.

Quiet judgment.

Deliberate damnation.

Then his voice breaks the air again after a few minutes.

“It has been decided.” His eyes lift to meet mine, dark and pitiless across the distance. I knew he never liked me.

 “First Prince Ezra Vale, by decree of the seven and the approval of the council, you are hereby sentenced to Eternal Slumber.”

A ripple moves through the crowd, a collective inhale, like the moment just before a storm. Then, the murmuring starts.

I close my eyes.

And for the first time in two days, I let myself feel it.

Not fear.

Not anger.

Just…

Peace.

Because this is the only thing that ever made sense after I let her go.

The only end that fits.

Eternal Slumber—second of its kind. Not death, no. That would be mercy. It is an unraveling. A sleep that never ends. A slow, suspended fading. Breath without breath. Heart without beat. A body buried in time while the world forgets you.

A prison without walls.

And I deserve it.

Hell, I deserve it.

I see her again behind my eyes. Not the way she smiled, or the way her lips parted when she whispered my name—but that last image.

Motionless.

Bruised.

Broken.

Because of me.

Because I pushed her away and straight into something darker.

And now I get what I asked for.

I keep my eyes shut as the murmurs continue.

Soft.

Curious.

Condescending.

They continue for what feels like hours. 

And then… they stop.

The silence this time is unnatural. Heavy, and waiting.

Something's changed.

And then—like a wave—

The murmurs come again.

Louder now.

Uneasy.

Shocked.

“Fuck,” Malik mutters beside me.

And that’s when I feel it.

The shift in the air. 

My eyes flick open.

And I see her.

Thea.

Her name crashes through me like light piercing open flesh.

She’s not a memory.

She’s not a ghost.

She’s here.

Moving through the crowd like silence wrapped in skin, like purpose disguised as grace. Her steps don’t falter. Her chin doesn’t lower. She walks beside Isla, as if she belongs, as if she’s immune to the shadows pressing in around her.

But she isn’t. I know it from the way her fingers twitch beside her.

Her presence is a war cry in a place that’s never known mercy.

And I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

I want to run to her, to scream, to demand why she’s here, why she’s doing this. To compulse her to go back to Finn. To the surface.

But I can’t move.

Because part of me is terrified this is an illusion, a cruel magic conjured by the Elders to twist the knife deeper. Some part of me is convinced that if I blink, she’ll be gone again—and I won’t survive losing her twice.

Malik straightens beside me, muttering under his breath. “This… this is suicide.”

I don’t answer.

Because what can I say?

She looks like everything I prayed for in the dark.

The only person who ever made this world feel bearable.

And she’s walking straight into it like a lamb into fire.

Her eyes don’t meet mine. Not yet. But I know she sees me.

She has to.

Because my heart—what’s left of it—is tearing itself apart in my chest.

God. If this isn't an illusion, she's going to really die.

The murmurs shift again, the crowd parts, not out of reverence, but disbelief. They don’t understand how she’s here, how she’s walking these floors, how a human is allowed to breathe this air.

She’s breaking every law simply by existing in this moment.

But that’s always been Thea.

Breaking laws I didn’t know existed.

Undoing me without even trying.

And then—she stops.

Right when Isla stopped.

And finally, her eyes find mine.

Alive.

And… mine.

Even now.

Even here.

I don’t know how long we stare. Maybe it’s seconds. Maybe it’s lifetimes. But I know this—

If they come for her, I will burn this entire court down with my bare hands.

Even if it’s the last thing I do.