All he could see was not Saphira, but the illusion the priests had burned into his memory: the ritual, the flames, the blood. His parents, faces twisted in agony, reaching for him as the fire consumed them. And behind the blaze, behind the betrayal—her mother. Smiling. Watching.
She looked just like her.
The priests' words echoed in his skull like the clang of a cursed bell:
"She has her parents' blood."
"She brought you here."
"You were her final kill."
Rage twisted through him like a blade of fire. The Mark on his chest throbbed in fury.
The three priests exchanged a glance, realizing their moment had come. The stone in the air pulsed once with a strange energy. The white-robed priest raised his hand.
"Now."
With a flash of blinding light, the magic stone above them flared and burst into a storm of power. The entire chamber quaked as the priests vanished in the flare, teleporting away in a gust of dark magic.
Killian didn't care.
He didn't even hesitate.
He gripped the dagger that had fallen from the red priest's hand, spun around, and charged toward the doorway.
Toward her.
Toward Saphira.
The last person he thought he could trust.
She stood there, frozen, lips parting in shock.
"Killian—"
But his fury drowned her voice.
He rammed the blade forward.
Straight into her stomach.
A soft gasp escaped her lips.
Saphira's eyes widened with disbelief, her body frozen with pain and confusion. Her fingers reached for his arm—not to push him away, but in a silent plea for understanding.
The blade twisted.
She fell.
She crashed to her knees before collapsing onto the stone floor.
Unconscious.
Killian stood over her, chest heaving, blood dripping from the dagger clutched in his hand.
He stared at her for a long moment.
He felt satisfied. Justified.
"She was going to kill me," he whispered to himself. "She brought me here. She knew."
But what he didn't know—
Was Saphira wasn't alone
Five shadows hid behind the grand pillars of the abandoned chamber. The five people Saphira had found on her journey. Each of them bore the same scar Killian did on their chest—a cursed scar of fate.
They had come with her. They had followed her into the ruins.
And they had witnessed everything.
Their eyes widened in horror as they watched Killian—his face carved with cold fury—bend down, grab Saphira's limp body, and sling her over his shoulder like nothing more than a sack of guilt.
Not a word.
No remorse.
Just silence.
And rage.
He stepped out of the abandoned place, dragging her through the forest path they had once walked together, every step weighted with betrayal.
Blood stained the leaves behind them.
And behind the trees, five pairs of eyes followed—afraid, stunned, and ready.
Killian walked forward, every footstep leaving a deeper wound in the earth. His hands clenched around her body, dragging her through the shadows, like a prisoner. Like an enemy.
But she had never been that.
Saphira had only come here to help.
She didn't know what the priests had done to him. Didn't know the lies they had wrapped around his soul.
She had called him here to ask—to understand.
She'd found others. Survivors. People like him.
She had planned to show him. To help him.
To save him.
But now she lay broken in his arms.
All because of a lie.
And Saphira—the only one who could have saved him—was now bleeding into its soil.