Page 43 of His Emotional Support Snack

The interaction is instantaneous.

The moment my blood hits her stomach, the dormant, exhausted Wildspont magic inside her reacts. A blinding, radiant silver light erupts from the pale, jagged scar on her ribs. It shoots upward, racing through her veins to meet the chaotic, purple static pouring from my hands.

The two magics collide.

A concussive shockwave of pure energy detonates in the bedchamber.

The force of the blast blows the glass from the windows, sending a shower of crystal out into the night. The heavy oak doors rattle in their frames. A massive dome of swirling purple and silver light forms around the bed, a physical, humming barrier that locks us inside a localized storm of raw, ancient power.

The magic burns through the air, smelling of cracked ozone and blooming earth.

My lifeforce drains rapidly, a dizzying, pulling sensation that makes the edges of my vision blur. I feed the bond, pushing the chaotic energy deeper into her chest, forcing the magic to wrap around her failing organs. I bind her survival to my own. If she dies, I die. The terms are absolute.

I hold my breath, my hand trembling violently against her sternum.

The silence stretches inside the dome of light. Outside, the chaotic noises of the dying battle slowly fade, the deep dark of midnight creeping over the estate as the long hours of the night grind past in a terrifying, agonizing eternity. I pour my very soul into her chest, anchoring her fading spirit through the blackest hours until the sky outside the shattered window finally begins to pale.

Then, as the first faint hint of dawn touches the horizon, a flutter.

A weak, hesitant thump pushes against my palm.

A second beat follows, stronger this time.

The rhythm catches, accelerating into a rapid, frantic staccato that matches my own racing pulse.

Esme’s chest heaves. Her back arches off the mattress, a sharp, ragged gasp tearing from her lips as her lungs fill with oxygen. The silver light beneath her skin flares brilliantly, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. But the light is no longer purely silver.

Deep, vibrant sparks of purple magic intertwine with the iridescent veins on her forearms. The two signatures weave together, fusing the Wildspont energy with the ancient power of the Tagnadaet bloodline.

Her eyes snap open.

She stares up at the swirling dome of light above us, her chest rising and falling in rapid, greedy hitches. The color rushes back into her pale cheeks, a vital, flushed heat banishing the cold pallor of death.

I collapse forward, resting my forehead against her shoulder, my shoulders shaking with a violent, overwhelming relief.

She is alive. She is bound to me, flesh, blood, and magic, until the end of our days. The warlord of Vhoig surrenders entirely, weeping silently into the blood-soaked collar of a human laborer.

27

ESME

The biting, damp chill of Vhoig is gone.

For twenty-four years, the pervasive cold of the harbor city lived in my marrow. It was a constant, aching companion, a sharp reminder of the rotting alleyways and the freezing rain of the Lowtown. I wake expecting the familiar shiver. I expect the sharp, tearing agony of the mirror shards embedded in my back.

There is only warmth.

A deep, resonant heat hums in my chest, pulsing in perfect, steady time with my heartbeat. It does not burn. It feels like standing in the direct path of the midday sun, a soothing, vibrating energy that radiates outward, warming my fingers and toes.

I open my eyes. The vaulted ceiling of the guest chamber is intact, though the pale morning light spills through shattered window frames, casting long, fractured shadows across the floorboards. The air smells of cracked ozone and blooming earth, a sharp, clean scent that chases away the lingering copper stench of blood.

The heavy, unyielding weight of an arm rests across my waist.

Zuirvih lies beside me on the mattress. He is stripped of the dented, blood-splattered armor, wearing only loose linen trousers. His massive frame takes up the majority of the silk-draped bed, curling protectively around my slighter form. His face is buried in the curve of my neck. I feel the steady, rhythmic drag of his breath against my collarbone.

I shift slightly, testing the muscles of my back.

No pain flares. The devastating lacerations, the trauma that stole my vision and stopped my heart, are entirely erased. The skin is smooth, unblemished.