Chaos. Utter, suffocating chaos.

The kind that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with fire. That coils like a vice in your chest—tight, crushing, unrelenting. The kind that doesn’t whisper. It screams.

It began with the wards. A keening shriek, like metal twisting against metal. Magic groaned under the weight of what it was forced to hold. The sky darkened, a sickly tint of ash and flame. Power rippled across the stones of Aretia like thunder given form. And then the gates burst open, unhinged, panicked, reeking of blood, smoke, and something worse: despair.

Riders stumbled in, some walking, some carried. All scorched. All changed. Their leathers torn, faces pale and haunted. Eyes wide with panic and grief. Screams echoed. Magic flared, uncontrolled. The scent of burnt skin mingled with the metallic tang of blood. And then—

He appeared. Xaden Riorson. A force of nature wrapped in shadow and fury, dragging hell behind him.

He didn’t walk. He charged into the infirmary like death itself chased him, arms wrapped around a limp, bloodied body. Her braid was tangled, matted with sweat and ash. Her skin, far too pale, clammy, lips edged in the unmistakable blue of poison. Her uniform soaked in red and torn beyond recognition. A weight too precious to fall.

And your husband— Brennan— stopped moving.

One heartbeat. Then another. An eternity.

You saw it before he spoke. The way his body locked. The way breath left him. The way his eyes went hollow, fixed entirely on the girl in Riorson’s arms. It wasn’t just panic. Not just horror. It was recognition—pure and terrible— ripping through him like a blade.

Violet Sorrengail. His baby sister. The one he buried in memory and silence. The one he let go when he chose to stay dead.

Now here— grown, broken, dying— on a table before him.

You moved instinctively. Years of fieldwork, trauma care— of functioning when your heart wants to freeze. You shouted for willowbark, clean water, cloths for the fever. But Brennan was already there, hands trembling as he laid her down, eyes wild with something desperate.

“She’s been poisoned,” he said—no, spat—his voice hoarse with fury and fear. “Venin. It’s deep. She’s drowning in it.”

His signet flared— golden light, brilliant and unyielding— and you saw it ripple through her chest as he forced his magic into her bloodstream. “I need magebane! Now!” he shouted, not looking up.

You saw it start to kill him. His magic burned too hot, pushed too deep, fighting something unnatural. Violet’s body jerked with every surge of power, her back arching off the table. A whimper escaped her lip, barely a sound. A thread of pain. A memory.

Brennan froze. His hands stilled. His eyes closed.

And then he made a sound you’d never heard before. Something quiet. Broken. A sound of failure.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept going. Pushing past agony, breath faltering, sweat dripping from his brow. His jaw clenched, arms shaking. Magic drained from him too fast— dangerously so— and you could feel it. The toll. The edge.

And when his light finally dimmed, flickering like a candle choking on wind, you stepped in.

Quiet. Measured. Steady. You slipped in at her side and took his place without a word, guiding your magic into Violet’s failing body. Just enough to keep her stable. Just enough to give him a breath.

That’s when it shattered.

He staggered back from the table like he’d been struck. His face split wide open with raw grief. His hand flew to his mouth—trying to hold it in: the panic, the sob, the guilt— but it was too late.

He collapsed.

His back hit the wall. Then the floor. He slid down like his legs had forgotten how to hold him. Curled in on himself, breath hitching, shoulders trembling, not sobbing, not quite, but unraveling. Breaking.

And you— gods help you— could do nothing but hold Violet’s life in your hands while watching the man you love fall to pieces beside her.