(Damien POV)
The world narrowed to black stone and the taste of my own blood.
I had carried Nova to the old solar chamber at the top of the east tower — the one room in Blackspire that had never been stained by ritual or slaughter. High windows let in pale moonlight; a single brazier burned low, throwing long shadows across the furs and cushions we'd dragged in earlier. Nova slept now — or tried to — curled on her side beneath heavy blankets, one hand cradled protectively over the faint swell of her abdomen. Liora had stayed long enough to seal the worst of the cuts on her wrists and force a healing draught down her throat, then left to help Elias secure the lower levels.
I sat on the edge of the wide bed, elbows on knees, head bowed.
Every breath hurt.
