Chaos reigned in the clearing—branches split, the air thick with the iron sting of blood, and the echo of bones cracking under wrath. The witches lay scattered like broken dolls, barely breathing, some not at all. Matthew stood in the center, a vision of fury incarnate. Crimson eyes wild, fangs bared, breath ragged. His hands trembled—slick with blood not his own—as the remnants of his blood rage snarled within him.

Marcus held you back, voice low and urgent, “You can’t—he’s not himself.” Gallowglass stood like a wall of muscle and instinct, blocking your path.

But you didn't care.

Heart hammering, you slipped past them, drawn to him like gravity itself. The others stayed rooted, unsure whether to restrain him or save you. Yet you stepped forward, every move deliberate, your voice a whisper cutting through the chaos.

“Matthew. You are stronger than this. Stronger than the rage. You are in control.”

He flinched.

That voice—your voice—broke through the fog of violence. His shoulders tensed, blood dripping from his fingers. You moved closer still, fearless, steady, the world fading until there was only him… and you.