"Keth'var nos, shi'ren."
The Old Draconic words cracked on his tongue, vowels fracturing under the weight of grief. "Forgive me."
Kane's silver hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty tangles.
Cyrus smoothed it back with trembling fingers, tucking strands behind pointed ears that had lost their usual flicker of awareness.
"Nos keth var'shien. Ver'dan keth." I failed you. Again.
Cyrus pressed his forehead against Kane's, crimson eyes burning as he whispered the final damning prayer.
"Shi'mara nos ver'kan. Eth'nor vas shi."
Take my soul instead. Let him live.
Cyrus's fingers closed around the Roaring Shard.
The crystal pulsed once against his palm—recognition, or perhaps greeting—before heat flooded up his arm in waves that felt too alive for simple magic.
He positioned Kane flat on the bed, adjusting limbs into ritual formation with methodical care that belied the panic clawing at his throat.
