The corridor roared with sound—crackling flames, distant shouts, the harsh clang of metal striking metal. Cassandra's pulse hammered in her ears, each beat louder than the last. The storm outside had been fierce, but this… this was carnage.
Julian pulled her close as they descended the staircase two steps at a time. Heat rose from below, smoke twisting upward in black plumes. Cassandra coughed, tears streaking down her cheeks as her throat burned.
"Cover your mouth," Julian ordered, tearing a strip of fabric from his coat and pressing it to her lips. His own voice was raw, but steady, strong—like the only anchor she had left in the chaos.
They hit the landing, only for a shadow to emerge from the smoke. Cassandra froze. The figure raised something—a rifle gleaming in the erratic firelight.
Julian shoved her behind him.
The gunshot exploded. The chandelier above crashed to the ground in a shower of sparks and shattered crystal. Cassandra screamed, ducking instinctively as shards flew past her face.
But Julian didn't flinch. He surged forward, knocking the rifle aside with a swift, brutal strike. The man crumpled, groaning as Julian's fist connected once, twice. The sound of impact echoed in Cassandra's bones.
"Move!" Julian shouted, grabbing her wrist again. His hand was warm despite the cold that had seeped into her very soul.
They bolted through the smoke-choked hall. Every corner was alive with firelight, every window rattling with the storm outside. The world itself seemed to be collapsing, and Cassandra's legs screamed for her to stop. But Julian never slowed, never hesitated, dragging her through the inferno as if sheer willpower could tear a path through hell.
At last, they stumbled into the drawing room. The flames hadn't reached here yet—the curtains still hung, the air still breathable—but it was only a matter of time.
Julian finally stopped, spinning her around to face him. His hands cupped her cheeks, his eyes blazing—not with fear, but with something fiercer.
"You're shaking," he said, his thumb brushing away the soot streaked across her face.
Cassandra clutched his wrists, her own breath ragged. "Of course I'm shaking! There's fire everywhere, people with guns—Julian, what if—what if we don't make it?"
For a moment, the noise of the burning estate seemed to fade. His face was inches from hers, the stormlight flashing in his eyes.
"We will make it," he swore. "Because I won't let you go. Not now. Not ever."
Her lips trembled, a hundred words trapped in her throat. She wanted to scream, to weep, to throw herself into his arms and never let go. But all that came out was a single whisper:
"Julian…"
Before she could say more, the windows shattered. The storm outside forced its way in, glass and wind slashing the room open. Cassandra cried out as figures burst through—dark coats, masked faces, weapons glinting.
Julian pushed her down just as bullets ripped through the air, tearing into the velvet curtains, splintering the wooden frames. He was on them in an instant, moving like a man possessed. Cassandra watched in horror and awe as he fought—every strike precise, brutal, controlled. He was no longer the composed man she thought she knew; he was a storm himself, fierce and unrelenting.
But even as he fought, his voice found her through the chaos:
"Cassandra! Run!"
Her body refused to obey. She couldn't leave him. Not while he stood bleeding, fighting, protecting her with every breath.
"Julian, no!" she cried, scrambling to her feet as another attacker lunged toward him. Without thinking, Cassandra grabbed the nearest object—a broken shard of crystal from the fallen chandelier—and drove it into the man's arm. He screamed, dropping his weapon.
Julian's head whipped toward her, shock flashing across his face. Then pride. Fierce, burning pride.
"You're stronger than you think," he said, even as he hurled the final assailant to the ground. His chest heaved, his coat torn, his knuckles bloodied.
The room fell silent except for their ragged breaths and the hungry crackle of the fire drawing closer. Smoke swirled between them, but neither moved.
Cassandra's crystal-shard-armed hand trembled as she stared at him. "What… what are we going to do now?"
Julian stepped toward her, his hand closing over hers, lowering the shard gently to the floor. His voice was low, steady, even as the firelight painted him in shades of war.
"Now?" His eyes locked on hers, dark and unwavering. "Now we fight our way out. Together."
And though fear still gripped her, though the estate burned and death pressed in on every side, Cassandra nodded. Because in that moment, standing with Julian in the ruins of her world, she finally believed him. Together, they could survive anything.