29. Twenty-Six

My first breath was agony. I gasped, sucking hot needles of air into stubborn, stiff lungs. The air was too hot, blistering, like breathing liquid fire. The muscles of my chest creaked with the effort of movement, protesting the breath. It was unnatural, as foreign as darkness at midday.

Awareness returned slowly, trickling in like the sluggish flow of half-frozen oil. The first thing I noticed was the cold, a bone-deep chill that seemed to radiate out from my very core. It was unlike anything I had ever felt before, a cold that went beyond the mere absence of heat. This was the cold of the grave, of flesh that had forgotten what it meant to be alive.

I tried to move, to sit up and take stock of my surroundings, but my body refused to cooperate. My limbs lay leaden and unresponsive, as if carved from marble rather than flesh and bone. Panic flared briefly in my chest, but I tried to tamp it down, focusing instead on the minute sensations that proved I was among the living.

The flickering light of the candles stabbed at my eyes as I forced them open, their weak illumination sending shards of pain lancing through my skull. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the gummy residue that clung to my lashes and sealed my lids together. Slowly, the world swam into focus—rough stone walls, a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, the glint of strange instruments on a blood-stained cloth.

I turned my head, the small motion sending a fresh wave of vertigo crashing over me. The room spun and tilted, my vision blurring at the edges. I swallowed hard against the surge of nausea that rose in my throat, breathing deeply through my nose until the dizziness passed.

As my sight cleared, I caught a glimpse of movement in my periphery. Two figures stepped closer, their forms indistinct in the guttering candlelight. One was tall and slender, cloaked in robes of deepest black that seemed to drink in the light. The other was shorter, more slightly built, with a shock of blonde hair that shone like spun gold.

Recognition flickered, a brief spark struck from the flint of my sluggish mind. Katyr and Daraith, the necromancer. But where was I? Unease snaked down my spine as I tried to piece together the fractured shards of memory.

I struggled to push myself upright, my arms trembling with the effort. The simple act of sitting up left me panting and lightheaded, a cold sweat beading on my brow. The room wavered and swam before my eyes, the edges blurring into indistinct shadows. I blinked hard, trying to force the world into focus.

Memories danced just out of reach, fragmented images that slipped through my grasp like wisps of smoke. I remembered pain, a searing agony that had consumed me, body and soul. I remembered Senna's face as he died, Ruith fighting on the battlefield and covered in blood. But everything else was a jumbled mess, a cacophony of sensations and half-formed thoughts that made no sense.

I looked down at my chest, my brow furrowing in confusion. There was a bandage there, stark white against my too-pale skin. I reached up with a trembling hand, my fingers hovering over the fabric, afraid to touch. A dull, throbbing ache radiated out from beneath the bandage, a pain that pulsed in time with the sluggish beat of my heart.

"Careful," a voice said, low and soothing. "Your injuries are still fresh."

I turned my head to see Katyr standing beside the altar, his brow creased with concern. He reached out, his hand warm and steady on my shoulder as he helped me sit up fully.

"What happened?" I croaked, my voice a raspy whisper that scraped against my throat like shards of glass. "Where's Ruith?"

Katyr and Daraith exchanged a heavy glance, a silent communication passing between them. Daraith turned away, busying himself with the array of gleaming instruments laid out on the dark cloth.

Katyr sighed. "What do you remember, Elindir?" he asked gently, his hand still resting on my shoulder.

"I remember... pain," I said slowly, each word an effort. "A terrible, searing agony that consumed me. And Ruith... his face, his eyes... And there was blood. So much blood." I trailed off, a sudden, wrenching panic seizing my heart. "Is he...is Ruith alright? Please, Katyr, tell me he's alive!"

The elf hesitated, his gaze flicking away from mine for a brief, telling moment. When he spoke, his words were carefully measured, as if he were navigating a verbal minefield. "Ruith is... alive. In a manner of speaking. But Elindir, much has happened while you slept."

Dread coiled in the pit of my stomach. I stared at Katyr, searching for answers, but there were none. "What do you mean, 'in a manner of speaking'? Katyr, what happened to Ruith? Where is he?"

"Elindir, you were dead. Ruith brought you back."

The words hit me hard, driving the air from my lungs. I stared at Katyr in mute shock, my mind reeling as I tried to comprehend the enormity of what he'd said. Dead. I had been dead. The fragmented memories clicked into place with sickening clarity—the battle, the searing pain of the blade piercing my chest, Senna's face as he fell.

I looked down at my hands, turning them over as if seeing them for the first time. They were too pale, the skin waxy and nearly translucent. I could see the blue tracery of veins beneath the surface, pulsing with each sluggish beat of my heart. Was this body truly mine? Or was I something else now, some unnatural thing caught between life and death?

Nausea rose in my throat and I swallowed hard, fighting back the sudden urge to retch. The world tilted and spun around me, the stone walls of the chamber seeming to close in. I clutched at Katyr's arm, my fingers digging into his flesh as I fought to keep my balance.

"Ruith," his name fell from my lips as I gripped Katyr's robes tightly. "What price did he pay to bring me back? Tell me he didn't…"

Katyr looked away, unable to hold my gaze. "The ritual required three things," he said softly. "A pound of his flesh, freely given. A sample of his seed, to carry the spark of life. And..." He trailed off, his voice cracking.

"And what?" I demanded, fear sharpening my words to a razor's edge. "Tell me, Katyr!"

The elf closed his eyes, his next words emerging as a pained whisper. "And a death-sleep, a journey into the realms beyond. For a day and a night, Ruith's spirit must wander the paths of the dead, cut off from the world of the living."

The breath left my lungs in a sharp, pained exhale. I sagged against the altar, my knees giving way beneath me. Only Katyr's grip on my arm kept me from crumpling to the cold stone floor. "No," I breathed, shaking my head in mute denial. "No, he can't... he wouldn't..."

"It's only for a day and a night," Katyr assured me.

I shook my head, pushing away from the altar to pace the length of the chamber on unsteady legs. The world still felt wrong, tilted on its axis, but I forced myself to focus past the vertigo, past the wrongness of the too-slow heart beating in my chest.

"I don't understand," I said, my voice rough with emotion. "Why would he do this? Why would he risk so much, sacrifice so much, for me?"

Katyr's expression softened. "Because he loves you, Elindir. More than his kingdom, more than his own life. You are everything to him."

I flinched as if struck. I turned away, unable to bear the weight of his knowing gaze. My eyes fell on the dark stain that marred the altar stone, the rust-brown of dried blood stark against the pale marble. Ruith's blood. Spilled for me, to bring me back. The enormity of it stole the breath from my lungs.

A sudden, desperate need seized me, an aching void that could only be filled by the sight of Ruith's face, the touch of his hand in mine. I whirled on Katyr, my eyes wide and wild. "Take me to him. I…I need to see him, Katyr. Please."

The elf hesitated, his gaze flicking to Daraith. After a long, tense moment, Katyr nodded. "Very well. He's in his bedchamber."

With a nod, Katyr led the way out of the chamber, his steps echoing eerily through the silent halls. I followed, my mind racing. The castle was quiet, its inhabitants unaware of the sacrifice their king had made. As we approached the staircase leading to Ruith's chambers, a wave of dread washed over me, but I pushed it aside.

I climbed the winding staircase that led to the king's bedchamber, each step heavier than the last. My heart hammered against my sore ribs, a staccato beat that echoed the pounding of my boots on the worn stone treads.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I paused, my hand resting on the carved oak door that led to Ruith's chambers. The wood was cool and smooth beneath my palm, the intricate patterns of leaves and vines that adorned its surface a testament to the skill of the elven artisans who had crafted it.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay beyond. Then, with a trembling hand, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The sitting room was dimly lit, the flickering glow of the candles casting dancing shadows on the richly appointed walls. Thick tapestries hung from ceiling to floor, their vibrant hues muted in the half-light of the fire in the hearth.

I walked into the bedchamber, my heart a leaden weight in my chest. The room was awash in the warm glow of candlelight, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the cloying sweetness of flowers.

And there, lying amidst the silken sheets of the massive four-poster bed, was Ruith.

My breath caught in my throat at the sight of him, a strangled sob welling up from the depths of my soul. He looked so peaceful, so serene, his handsome features smoothed into an expression of utter tranquility. His dark hair spilled across the pillows in a glossy cascade, the intricate braids unraveled and fanned out like a halo around his head.

Someone had dressed him in his finest robes, the rich black velvet embroidered with glittering silver thread. The fabric draped elegantly over his lean, muscular form, accentuating the regal lines of his body even in repose. His hands were folded across his chest, long fingers laced together in a pose of eternal rest.

I stumbled forward, my vision blurring with unshed tears. I sank to my knees beside the bed, reaching out with a trembling hand to brush my fingertips along the cold, lifeless skin of Ruith's cheek. A shudder wracked through me at the unnatural chill, the stillness of him.

A ragged gasp tore from my throat as I traced the elegant line of Ruith's jaw, the sharp angle of his cheekbone. My fingers shook as they ghosted over his lips, once so warm and vital, now cold and unyielding beneath my touch. The reality of his death crashed over me anew, a tidal wave of anguish that threatened to pull me under and drown me in its inky depths.

I climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight as I crawled over to him. The sheets were cool and smooth against my skin, a jarring contrast to the heat of my grief. I stretched out beside Ruith's lifeless form, my body molding instinctively to the familiar planes and angles of his.

"You foolish, arrogant, impossible elf," I whispered, my voice cracking on the words. Tears spilled down my cheeks in scalding trails, splashing onto the velvet of his robes. "You stubborn fucking bastard."

I buried my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him, but it wasn't the same. Without his warmth, it was like breathing in nothing at all.

I clutched Ruith's body close, my tears soaking the rich velvet of his robes. The fabric was damp and cold against my cheek, so unlike the vital warmth that once radiated from his skin. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing this all to be some terrible nightmare from which I would soon wake. But the ache in my chest, the hollow emptiness that yawned like a chasm within me, told me this was no dream.

This was a waking nightmare from which there was no escape.

I don't know how long I lay there, my body wracked with silent sobs, before I sensed a presence in the room. I lifted my head, blinking through the haze of tears, to see Daraith standing at the foot of the bed. The necromancer's black robes seemed to absorb the candlelight, rendering them a void of shifting shadow.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice rough and ragged with grief.

Daraith inclined his head, long black hair slithering over his shoulders like serpents. "I came to assure you, Prince Elindir, that all will be well come the dawn. Ruith's spirit is tethered to yours now. As long as you draw breath come dawn, he will too."

My jaw clenched, a surge of desperate anger rising in my chest like a cresting wave. "He better, Daraith," I ground out through gritted teeth. "Because I swear by all the gods, if Ruith doesn't open his eyes at the first light of dawn, I will personally ensure that your death is slow and agonizing."

Daraith inclined his head, the movement sending ripples through the inky fall of his hair. "As you wish, Your Highness."

The door closed behind Daraith with a soft click, and I slumped back against the pillows, all the fight gone out of me.