The altar reeked of scorched magic and old, metallic blood. Like something sacred had been sacrificed here too many times, and never willingly.
Lauren barely ducked in time—Cassian's claws sliced past her cheek, close enough to sting. He was faster than he used to be. Too fast. His movements were sharp, unnerving. Not just powered by rage, but by something darker, older. Whatever altar magic he'd tapped into, it wasn't natural.
"You still clinging to pride, Lauren?" he taunted, circling. His eyes gleamed obsidian. "You think you're free? You were born to kneel."
Her fist connected with his jaw, but it didn't slow him. He laughed as though it only proved his point.
"I was born to burn," she snapped, driving her elbow into his ribs. Bone cracked, but he didn't flinch. If anything, his grin widened.
"I see it now. Michael's got you leashed. The Matron branded your soul. And you—" he ducked her next blow, voice like poison— "you actually think this war is yours to choose."
His hand lashed out. Fast. Brutal. She felt the impact before she saw it—his fist slammed into her ribs, lifting her off her feet. Her back hit the altar stones with a sickening crack.
Pain exploded in her chest. She tasted copper. Gasped. The world blurred.
Cassian crouched beside her, his voice almost tender. "I should thank him. For softening you up."
And then came the growl.
It wasn't hers.
It was his.
Michael crashed through the trees like a force of nature. His eyes were glowing silver, his chest bare and heaving, his hands already bloodied. Not his own.
He didn't even glance at Cassian at first. He looked at her.
Her blood. Her broken breath. Her shaking hands, pushing herself upright.
"Get away from her," he said, voice low and lethal.
Cassian's grin turned smug. "I knew you'd come. Her knight. Her curse."
Lauren's voice rasped. "Don't—" she coughed, pain splitting her ribs. "Don't interfere."
Michael's glare burned a hole through Cassian, but he didn't move.
"I don't need you to save me again," she snapped, dragging herself to her feet, every inch of her trembling.
Cassian tilted his head, amused. "There it is. The rage."
The three of them erupted at once—fire and fangs and fury colliding. Cassian fought like a possessed thing, but this time, Michael fought like a man with everything to lose.
Together, they were chaos.
Together, they pushed Cassian back.
But just before Michael could land the final blow, Cassian disappeared into the trees, his laughter echoing behind him like smoke. "She's waiting at the altar," he called. "You already belong to Her."
Gone.
Lauren sat slumped against the cave wall, blood soaking through the side of her shirt. The gash was deep, jagged. Her breath came shallow and quick.
Michael knelt beside her, his hands gentle.
"Don't," she hissed as his fingers brushed her wound. "It burns when you touch me."
He froze. His hand hovered above her skin.
"It's the brand," he murmured. "My presence strengthens it."
"No." Her voice was soft, bitter. "It's you. You're the brand."
Still, she didn't pull away.
He pressed his palm to her ribs, and the fire beneath her skin flared violently. She bit down a cry, but her body trembled under the pain. He flinched too, as if he felt it.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Don't apologize," she said, voice hoarse. "Just don't pretend this is anything other than hell."
Their faces were close now. Too close. Every breath between them was shared.
His voice dropped, rough with something unspoken. "You hate me. But you don't want me gone."
Her eyes glittered with fury and something unnameable. "I want you buried."
They didn't kiss.
But gods, they almost did.
The blade was real.
The Severing Blade sat beneath the altar stone, resting in a bed of old runes that pulsed like a second heartbeat. Cold mist curled around it, whispering of things better left forgotten.
Lauren stepped toward it slowly, like approaching something wild.
"I feel... cold," she murmured.
Michael said nothing. He just watched.
She reached for the hilt. Her fingers curled around the leather-wrapped handle—and nothing happened.
No pulse of magic. No spark. No pull.
"Why won't it respond?"
"Try again," he said.
She did.
Still nothing.
And then the glyphs ignited. White-hot. Blinding. Pain lanced through her skull, and her knees buckled.
She saw a vision—not a dream, not memory. Something in-between.
She was kneeling—not before Michael, not even before the Matron. She knelt before herself. Or someone who looked like her. A woman crowned in shadow. Her eyes bled silver. Her voice was thunder and ash.
"Only she who is unbound by love or vengeance can lift the blade."
Lauren stumbled back, gasping. Her skin clammy. Her heart racing.
Michael reached for the sword—but the moment his hand touched it, it screamed. Fire lashed up his arm, burning bright. He fell back with a shout, clutching the blistering skin.
Lauren stared at the sword, wide-eyed.
"It knows," she breathed.
Michael met her gaze, pain etched deep into his features. "You love me," he said quietly. "That's why it won't obey."
She wanted to scream. To break something. To break him.
But she said nothing.
The cave was too small.
One fire. One blanket. Two people trying too hard not to touch.
Lauren sat near the flames, hugging her knees. Her ribs ached, but it was her silence that throbbed worse.
"You knew," she finally said.
Michael sat across from her, shirt off, wrapping his burned arm in rough cloth. His skin glowed in the firelight, but he looked tired. Haunted.
"I knew parts," he admitted. "I was told... I would love the one meant to end me."
She froze. The fire popped.
"You think this is love?" she asked, voice low, sharp.
He met her eyes. "No. I think you're a war I want to lose."
The silence between them stretched, hot and raw.
She didn't answer.
He didn't reach for her.
And they didn't kiss.
But gods—they wanted to.