Page 132 of Song of the Heart Scale
In the Immortal’s grasp, two glowing heart scales pulsed—one dark, one radiant.
Azareth looked down at them, then turned. He crossed the room without a word and stopped in front of me. I was still kneeling, my breathing shallow and sweat dripping down my face. He placed the radiant scale against my chest.
Pain lanced through me like a spear of fire. I arched back, screaming. It felt like I was being torn open and re-stitched with stars. My veins burned. My mark blazed white-hot.
And then it was done.
The heart scale was mine again.
My chest heaving, I collapsed to the floor.
Azareth met my gaze with eyes that were fathomless, ancient. There was something…familiarabout him. A connection I didn’t understand. A knowing, like his gaze had always watched over me.
But he didn’t leave.
He turned back to Thorne, who groaned as he crawled toward a dropped blade.
I stood, now whole, with power humming through me, and strode to my brother.
Thorne looked up, rage still burning in his eyes. “You stole everything,” he rasped.
“No,” I said. “You lost it.”
He weakly swung the foraged blade. I caught his arm and drove my blade into his chest.
He gasped, his eyes widening in shock as blood spilled from his lips.
Then he went still.
I let him fall.
Silence reigned.
Azareth watched me. Still not speaking. Just… watching.
Malachar stepped forward once more. “The bloodline is fulfilled.”
My brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
But Azareth gave nothing away—only a lingering glance, filled with a thousand answers left unsaid.
I had questions. So many. But they would have to wait.
Cat rushed to me, her eyes wide and glassy with relief. I took her hand.
Behind us, Azareth stood still as stone.
But he didn’t vanish.
The air wasthick with the scent of blood and smoke as the final echoes of war whispered through the scorched stones of the throne room. Yet amidst it all, Azareth stood untouched—a figure of divine stillness. Cat tightly gripped my hand, her touch grounding me when everything else felt like it might drift away.
Malachar cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Azareth,” he said, his voice low and reverent, as though speaking too loudly might fracture the moment, “has agreed to speak.”
As Azareth turned his unsettling gaze to me, those obsidian eyes pinned me in place. He moved with glacial grace, stepping closer until only an arm's length separated us. Up close, I could feel it—the sheerweightof him. Not physical, but something deeper. As if the world tilted slightly in his direction.
“You wish to know why,” he said.
His voice was low, resonant. It echoed inside my bones more than my ears. I slowly nodded, unable to summon any arrogance or defiance.
