Chapter 20

Through the haze of pain, voices reach me—soft and distant, as though I’m hearing them from underwater. Muffled. Warped. Unreal.

It reminds me of when I was young, playing in the river with Lucian and Damian. How I’d lose my footing on the mossy rocks and slip beneath the surface. How their voices would echo above the water, distant and panicked, calling my name as I sank.

But this time, their voices aren’t there.

They’ve been replaced by others—blurred tones I can’t quite place. Words drift in and out, like sunlight through murky depths.

“We have to leave. Now.”

That one returns again and again. The same voice, low and steady. Reassuring. Protective. The kind of voice you cling to in the dark. It belongs to the person holding me—of that, I’m certain. Though their name is locked away, buried beneath layers of burning agony I can’t claw through.

Then another voice, sharp and raw:

“What did you do to her!?”

Dorothee.

That one I know. Her voice cuts through the fog like a lifeline—but just as quickly, it’s swallowed again by the next wave of pain. I can’t make out the words anymore, only the storm of her fury. I feel it rock me, like a fragile boat adrift on angry waters.

Nothing makes sense. Nothing, except the arms around me.

They anchor me. A point of warmth in the cold. Of safety in the chaos. They hold me steady, pulling me close, promising—without words—that I will survive this. That the pain will pass. That I will breach the surface again.

Even if I don’t know how.

Beneath it all, I realize I’m alone in the water.

Corneille is gone.

Or... no, not gone. Distant. Her agony hums in the current, a wounded howl echoing through the depths. I reach for her—desperate to take her hand, to pull her close—but she recoils. My touch burns her. She slips further away each time I try.

So I let her go.

It hurts in a new way. But I release her, and the current quiets.

I drift.

I’m not sure how much time passes. Minutes? Hours? A lifetime?

Pain stretches time into strange shapes, and in its folds, I feel cold fingers against my skin. A cloth, I think, pressed to my forehead. Something soft brushes against my temple—lips, maybe? Breath?

Then come the whispers.

They’re close. Soothing. They don't pierce the water, not fully, but I can sense them. Gentle syllables repeated again and again, threaded through with intention. Promises, maybe. Or prayers.

I cling to them. Each repetition a rope tied around my wrist, keeping me tethered to the world.

My lips move before I realize it. The word slips out, barely more than a breath.

“Silas?”

Surely he must have done it by now—claimed me, marked me, pulled me free of this drowning place. That was the deal. His bite to bring me back. To finish what I started.

But there’s nothing on my neck.

No pulse of fire. No bond taking shape.

Just silence. Just pain.

Still, I hold on.

Maybe that’s what faith is. Not certainty—but choosing to believe anyway. Choosing to trust someone to catch you even when the fall seems endless.

So I fall.

I let go of the fight. I let the river take me, carried not by terror—but by the arms that still hold me close.

And I hope that, when the pain ends, I’ll still be in them.