Semua Bab THE SILVER LINING: Bab 51 - Bab 60

Krishna was panting, every breath a shiver of exhaustion. Her chest heaved and deflated, blood still spilling from the gash she had created, her hand throbbing with the rebound of outlaw magic. Her fire had coiled around the beast like paper—concluding and consuming it, black ash—that would not hold its shape, but at a cost.Her legs were shaking.She fell back, her eyes shaking. The cosmos spun around her, black edges curling around the edges.The light that surrounded her pulsed with the power of the breaking barrier, but it was falling, crumbling from the edges. The abominations outside didn't let up, teeth and claws crashing against the wards she had laid. They never would let up. They would penetrate. And when they did, Brunschière would be dead."Ignatius." She was hardly more than a breath, the words whispered over the din. "I can't. Can't continue. much longer."Ignatius scooped her up almost as soon as she had spoken, his massive hands pushed on either side of her shoulders,

Brunschière, Before DawnIt was still now.Too still.The kind of quiet that comes after fire—after something long and savage has been restrained, if only briefly. Outside the glistening veil, the world growled and raked. Within the cottage where Krishna slept, the air was thick with incense and blood-soaked fabric.She had fallen the instant the final sigil flared.Now she slumbered like the dead.But even at rest, Krishna's body shook. Her breathing was shallow, her complexion pale, her brow beaded with sweat. The veins on her wrists still shone faintly, gold flaring under the surface like the dying coals of a fire.A healer crouched beside her, murmuring incantations. A lavender water basin went dark as blood-stained rags soaked in it."Pushed too far," the healer grumbled to no one in specific. "Gave more than she could give."Outside, war drums of another sort beat—the ripping, shrieking howls of monsters battering the magical barrier.Brunschière trembled with every blow.And Ig

But towards a name which emerged like ash from their lips:Krishna.Above the Steps – PerferaShe saw it. The manner in which their grief stopped trembling and began to cut.She lifted her face once more. Mockery fell away.She bent towards Miyal, her whisper as sharp as thorns. "They're remembering."Miyal did not say anything.His eyes were on the crowd.And somewhere -- behind whatever magic wrapped about his mind -- a flicker of something passed over his eyes.Regret.Or guilt.Or possibly only a name.Krishna.Perfera's eyes tightened.Then flashed to the people, her voice strained and frosty. "Let this be your final warning. The throne is not built on your tears. It stands on obedience."The guards marched forward, blades drawn.Perfera stepped down the final step.“Defy us again,” she whispered, her voice curling through the crowd like smoke, “and you’ll join your precious Luna in the flames.”No one moved.Not the guards, not the elders, not even the crying child pressed again

Brunschière, Midnight.Flames crackled softly in the fireplace, their coals pulsating like a heartbeat. Light shadows danced softly on the rough stone walls. Outside, the magical shield buzzed softly, straining under the burden of the plague battering against it from the hills.But within—there was silence.Krishna stretched out on the cot. Her face was ashen, her body covered with layers of spell-woven linens to ward off the fever. Sweat beaded on her hairline. Her fingers jerked spasmodically above the blanket, as if pursuing something in the darkness.Ignatius sat beside her, observing.He had not shifted for hours.His hands were calloused, clenched tightly between his knees, knuckles white. His eyes would not blink.She had given herself to that spell. Bled herself raw.To guard them.To guard him.He swallowed hard. "Krishna," he breathed, "if you go away from me now…"But she did not stir.Until——the flames in the fire surged.Ignatius sprang up.The flames danced higher, flar

Beyond the sanctum, the village of Brunschière lay quiet.The barrier continued to glow softly, a dome of silver energy that arced above the rooftops like a mother's palm. Children slumbered in their mothers' arms. The injured were rocked softly in the stillness of the temple's halls. Elders knelt at the feet of the ancient stones, whispering ancient chants from a era predating Luna and Alpha—when gods once roamed the earth in hiding.And in the sanctuary's center, Krishna slept.Not peacefully. Not yet.She shuddered under the blanket woven by Ignatius' hands and draped over her shoulders. Her breathing was shallow waves, sweat beading on her forehead in spite of the chill winds outside. Her hands—scalded and bloody from the spell she had weaved—lay over her chest like a prayer she could not complete.Ignatius sat beside her bed, monitoring each breath.His armor still powdered with ash, sword at his side. But here, he wasn't a soldier. He was just a man with crimson-ringed eyes, hol