Chapter 6
Step by agonizing step, I dragged the academy's golden prodigy across the basalt terrace, through the arched doorway, and into the Sanctuary Chamber.
***
The iron doors of the safe haven ground shut behind us, cutting off the howling winds of the abyss.
The chamber was small, circular, and bathed in the soft, tranquil glow of a central luminary crystal suspended above an altar of white marble. The air here was warm and sterile, smelling faintly of dried myrrh and old parchment. The anti-divination runes carved along the perimeter walls hummed quietly, assuring us that for now, the Arch-Mages in the sky were blind to what happened within these stones.
I eased Julian down onto the low dais at the foot of the altar.
He leaned back against the white marble, his head tilted toward the ceiling, his breath rattling in his throat like broken glass. His skin was paper-white, save for the dark, sickly purple bruising beneath his eyes and the black web of necrosis pulsing along his throat.
I pulled off my leather gloves and tossed them aside. I unhooked my field medic kit, laying out vials of moon-grass salve, silver-leaf bandages, and a surgical blade of purified cold iron.
"Take off the coat," I ordered, kneeling between his spread knees.
Julian didn't move. He looked down at me through hooded eyes, a faint, bitter shadow of his usual smirk curling his lips. "Giving orders now, Vance? You haven't... earned the right."
"Take it off, or I'll cut it off with my dagger."
He stared at me for a long moment, seeing the unyielding fire in my eyes, and finally yielded. He closed his eyes and let his head drop, offering no resistance as I reached forward.
My fingers brushed against his collar. The fabric was soaked with a mixture of sweat and blood. I carefully unclasped the silver falcon broach, sliding the heavy woolen coat off his shoulders. Beneath it, his fine linen shirt was shredded and blackened, sticking to his torn skin.
I took the small surgical blade and sliced through the remaining batiste, peeling the cloth away from his torso.
My breath caught in my throat.
Up close, under the pure white light of the sanctuary crystal, the damage was horrifying.
His chest, lean and corded with muscle, was marred by a catastrophic patchwork of violence. Beside the ancient scars I had glimpsed through his bedroom door, his entire right shoulder and pectoral were swollen to twice their normal size, black blood pooling beneath the skin like ink beneath parchment. The bones in his wrist were displaced, an unnatural bend visible beneath the blackened flesh.
"How long?" I asked, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "Julian... how long have you been carrying these?"
He didn't answer. He turned his face away, staring at the blank stone wall of the chamber.
"Look at me," I commanded, reaching up with a trembling hand to grip his jaw.
His skin was burning hot against my fingertips. I forced his face toward mine.
His gray eyes met mine, and the sheer, crushing weight inside them made my soul ache. There was no arrogance left. No mockery. Only an agonizing, unfathomable weariness—the look of a soldier who had been fighting a losing war on the same bloody hill for a thousand years, with no reinforcements and no hope of dawn.
"Ninety-nine times," I whispered, the words trembling on my lips. "The parchment in your desk. *Loop ninety-nine ended in ash.* What did it mean?"
Julian closed his eyes, a muscle in his jaw jumping. A single bead of sweat traced the line of his cheekbone.
"You weren't supposed to see that," he rasped.
"Why did you take the gravity lance?" I demanded, my grip on his jaw tightening. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt. "Why did you intercept the hex yesterday? Why did you ruin your own arm, your own career, your own life to keep me from getting hit?"
"Because you're an idiot," he breathed, his voice cracking with sudden, raw emotion. "Because you charge into every trial with your chin high and your eyes fixed on the sky, completely blind to the teeth waiting in the dark."
"I am the second-ranked duelist in this entire academy!" I yelled, the frustration boiling over in my chest. "I don't need you to throw yourself onto spears for me! I earned my place! I fought for every inch of dirt beneath my boots while you sat in your high tower, mocking me, pushing me down, stealing my scores—"
"I was keeping you alive!"
The roar tore from his throat with such violence that he choked, coughing up a spatter of dark blood that dotted the white marble between us.
He lunged forward, grabbing my wrists with his uninjured left hand. His grip was surprisingly fierce, his fingers digging into my skin with a desperation that bordered on feral. He pulled me close, so close I could feel the scorching heat of his breath against my lips, so close I could see the tiny gold flecks drowning in the gray storm of his eyes.
"You think I care about the scores?" he hissed, his voice trembling with a rage born of absolute despair. "You think I care about a brass medal or a title from a council of decrepit fools? I don't give a damn about the Archon Mantle, Aurelia. I never did."
"Then why?" I breathed, my face inches from his, my heart stalling in my chest. "Why do you need me to be second?"
"Because the first one dies," he whispered.
The words fell like lead into the quiet sanctuary.
"What?"
Julian's hand slid from my wrist up to my forearm, his calloused thumb brushing against my pulse point. His touch was burning, yet it trembled violently. The fierce, terrifying intensity in his face fractured, softening into something so fragile, so infinitely tender, that my breath deserted me.
"Every single time," he murmured, his voice breaking into a ragged whisper. "Every time you claim first place... every time you wear that cursed crown at the coronation... the sky tears open. The abyss descends. And I have to hold you while your blood turns to ash in my hands."
He leaned his forehead against mine, his damp hair falling around our faces like a dark curtain, shutting out the rest of the world.
I stopped breathing. The proximity was overwhelming. The smell of scorched lavender, metallic blood, and the clean, masculine scent of his skin filled my senses. His breath hitched, hot and uneven against my lips.
"Ninety-nine times, Aurelia," he breathed against my skin, his eyes squeezed shut as if reliving an endless parade of nightmares. "Ninety-nine lives I've watched you bleed out on that marble dais. I tried warning you—you thought I was mad. I tried fleeing with you—the academy wards executed us as deserters. The only thing that works... the only way you survive past tomorrow's third bell... is if you remain second."
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, burning hot and sharp.
"Julian..."
"So let me be the bastard," he whispered, his left hand reaching up, his trembling fingers gently cupping the side of my neck, right over the spot where his necrotic blood had fallen yesterday. His touch was an agonizing contradiction—gentle as a feather, yet heavy with centuries of sorrow. "Hate me. Curse my name in the common rooms. Spit on my shadow when I walk past. But stay behind me, Aurelia. Please. Just let me win tomorrow."
