The streets blurred past.
Aurelion poured mana into his legs, pushing his body faster than it had ever moved. The buildings became smears of gray and brown. The few pedestrians he passed flattened themselves against walls, their faces masks of shock.
He didn't slow.
The basement. The cult. Ami.
What Malagar said echoed in his skull like a bell. The ancient demon from Lancet. The one with empty pits for eyes. The one who had judged him, called him a fragment, and let him live.
He should have killed me then, Aurelion thought. Now he has Ami.
His hands shook. Not from exhaustion—from rage.
He rounded a corner.
The block was still there. The vegetable cart, abandoned. The café with smudged windows, dark. The children's toys scattered in the dirt yard, still, unmoving.
No one was outside.
No one was watching.
He ran to the alley, found the steel door still cracked open. The darkness within seemed to breathe.
He descended.
The basement was still.
The cultists lay where they had fallen—dozens of bodies, arranged in rows, their faces slack, their eyes closed. The candles had gone out. The incense had stopped. The symbols on the walls were dark.
And at the far end of the room, slumped against the wall—
Ami.
Aurelion crossed the room in seconds, falling to his knees beside her. Her blade lay a few feet away, untouched. Her coat was torn. A dark bruise spread across her throat. Blood had dried on her face, crusted in her hair.
But she was breathing.
Barely.
"Ami." He touched her cheek. Her skin was cold. "Ami, wake up."
Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
"Don't talk. Just hold on."
He looked around. No message. No words carved in shadow. Vorath had simply… left.
He didn't need to leave a message, Aurelion realized. He knows I'll come.
He wants me to come.
The rage swelled in his chest, hot and suffocating. His hands trembled as he checked her wounds. The gash on her head. The bruising on her throat. The way her breathing came in shallow, uneven gasps.
She needs a doctor. Now.
He couldn't wait for the medics. They would take too long to find this place, too long to navigate the narrow streets, too long to carry her up the stairs.
He lifted her.
She was lighter than he expected.
He cradled her against his chest, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. Her head lolled against his shoulder. Her blood soaked through his coat.
He climbed the stairs. The steel door. The alley.
The block was still empty. No cultists. No civilians. Just the wind and the distant hum of the turrets on the wall.
He ran.
His jaw was clenched so tight it ached. His vision narrowed to the path ahead, to the hospital, to the doors he needed to reach.
If she dies, he thought, I will tear them apart with my bare hands.
I don't care how old he is.
I don't care how powerful.
He will burn.
The hospital was fifteen minutes away.
Aurelion covered it in eight.
He burst through the emergency entrance, Gatekeeper still strapped to his back, Ami in his arms. Nurses rushed toward him. A gurney appeared. Hands reached for her.
"Demon attack?" a doctor asked.
"Cult. A demon. I don't know." He set her down on the gurney, his voice low and tight. "She's lost blood. Possible internal injuries. Her breathing is shallow. Help her."
The doctors moved quickly, efficiently, cutting away her coat, checking her pulse, her pupils, her ribs.
"We've got her," a nurse said. "You need to wait outside."
Aurelion didn't move.
"Sir. You need to wait outside."
His fists clenched. The air around him seemed to grow colder.
"I'm not leaving."
The nurse looked at the doctor. The doctor looked at Aurelion—at his blood-soaked coat, at the sword strapped to his back, at the barely contained fury in his eyes.
"Let him stay," the doctor said.
Aurelion stood against the wall, arms crossed, watching them work.
They cleaned the gash on her head. They bandaged her throat. They listened to her lungs, tapped her ribs, injected something into her IV.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just watched.
Vorath did this.
He could have killed her. He chose not to.
He wants me angry.
He wants me reckless.
Good.
Let him have what he wants.
Hours passed.
A doctor finally emerged, her face tired, her scrubs stained.
"She's stable. Three broken ribs. A concussion. Severe bruising on her throat—if she'd been grabbed any harder, her trachea would have collapsed." The doctor paused. "She was lucky."
Aurelion's voice was flat. "That wasn't luck."
The doctor didn't argue. "She's unconscious. Likely will be for a while. You can see her."
Ami's room was private. Curtains drawn. Monitors beeping.
She lay on the bed, pale against the white sheets. Bandages wrapped her head, her throat, her chest. An IV dripped fluids into her arm.
Aurelion pulled a chair to her bedside and sat.
He didn't speak. He didn't touch her. He just sat there, watching her breathe.
I should have been there.
I should have gone with her.
But I was at the wall. Fighting demons. Protecting the city.
And she paid the price.
His hands curled into fists. His knuckles went white.
Vorath.
You wanted my attention.
You have it.
He stood.
The monitors beeped. Ami's chest rose and fell.
"I'm going to find him," he said quietly. "I'm going to make him regret ever touching you."
He walked to the door. Stopped. Looked back.
"I'll be back."
He left.