I wake to Kael's ragged breathing, hollow and erratic—the pained staccato of air I never want to hear. First light of dawn filters through the portal in our tiny tent, lighting up his face pocked with fatigue, full of shadows that are worry. I freeze for a second, the pain in my chest deeper than any wound. The bond tingles beneath my skin, vibrating with his waning power. I swallow back the terror in my throat and will myself to walk.
Kael is reclining on his elbows, eyes half‑shut, sweat glistening on his forehead. I kneel beside him and his silver-gray eyes pop open. "You're awake," he whispers, voice hoarse, thinner than it ever was. My heart stutters. We'd have hours—no, days—before his breath would be this false. But the bond's tug speaks the truth: the curse of Isolde, wounded by our attack on her watchtower, still feeds on him from the inside.
