Page 117 of The Curse of Golden Blood
I moved without conscious thought.
My hand closed around his throat, lifting him from the ground as easily as picking up a child. His eyes bulged as he clawed at my fingers.
"I said bring her back."
"I... can't..." he wheezed. "She's already gone."
The admission shattered something inside me. I released him, and he crumpled to the floor, gasping. But my attention was already back on Miralyte's still form.
Too late. I was too late.
The rage that had been building in my chest transformed into something deeper, more devastating. Grief so profound it felt like drowning. Like being crushed under the weight of every failure, every moment of hesitation that had led to this.
I knelt beside the table, gathering her cooling body against my chest. Golden blood stained my clothes, my hands, everything I touched.
Behind me, Varlath was saying something about the greater good, about sacrifices for the realm. The words buzzed around me like insects.
I silenced him with a gesture. His voice cut off mid-sentence as his throat simply ceased to function. He collapsed, eyes wide with terror, hands clawing at his neck as he suffocated on his own inability to breathe.
I didn't watch him die. All my attention was on the woman in my arms.
"Mira," I whispered, her name a prayer and a plea. "Come back to me."
But there was no response. No flutter of eyelashes or hitch in breathing. Just the terrible stillness of death.
Desperation clawed at my throat. I pressed my hands against her opened chest, willing my own life force into her still heart. But fae magic couldn't reverse death. It could preserve, enhance, corrupt, but it couldn't restore what had already been lost.
I tried anyway.
Power poured from me in waves, crackling through the air like visible lightning. The storm outside intensified, rain lashing the windows as wind howled through the palace walls. I gave everything I had, every drop of magic, every ounce of strength.
Nothing.
Finally, when I had nothing left to give, I looked up at the ceiling and spoke in the old tongue. The words felt rusty on my lips, unused for centuries.
Morwyn tel'Quessir, sina sila amin.Mother of the Firstborn, hear me now. Una sinta en ala ten' lle. Mira ten' rashwe. Estelio nin, Morwyn.She is not finished with her path. Not yet ready for the journey. Have mercy on me, Mother.
The ancient words hung in the air like smoke, carrying all the weight of my grief and rage. But the ceiling gave no answer. The Mother, if she still listened to the prayers of her wayward children, remained as silent as the woman in my arms.
I'd failed her.
Failed to protect what mattered most. Failed to prevent the very tragedy that had haunted my nightmares for centuries. My mother, dying in this same room. Miralyte, following the same cursed path.
Time lost all meaning. I knelt there holding the one person who'd broken through centuries of careful isolation. The tears that fell onto her still face burned like acid.
Then something changed.
The golden blood pooled beneath her began to glow. Not the dim luminescence I'd grown used to, but something fierce and alive. It pulsed like a heartbeat, each throb sending ripples of light across the stone floor.
I watched in stunned silence as the blood moved. Not flowing randomly, but gathering itself. Drawing back toward her body with purpose that defied every law of nature I knew.
The gaping wound in her chest began to close.
Not the slow knitting of flesh that healing magic produced, but something instantaneous and impossible. Skin sealed itself without scars. Ribs reformed with audible clicks. Her heart, visible through the torn cavity moments before, disappeared behind walls of restored muscle and bone.
The transformation spread outward. Color flooded back into her pale cheeks. The blue tinge around her lips faded to healthy pink. Even her hair seemed to brighten, golden strands catching candlelight that shouldn't have been able to penetrate the darkness.
Then her chest rose.
