The silence that followed Vane's death was heavier than the darkness itself. Where the Prince had stood moments ago, there was no body—only his hollow, blackened armor lying discarded on the stone like a shed skin. The dark, shimmering mist that had once been his physical form was still swirling toward the cavern ceiling, vanishing into the shadows.
Azeal lay unconscious in Vaelora's lap, his breathing shallow and jagged, like the broken stones of the Altar. Malakor had vanished into the gloom, leaving behind only the echoing silence of the Abyss.
Vaelora knew they couldn't stay in the open. With a strength born of pure desperation, she draped Azeal's heavy arm over her shoulder. Every step was a battle against the weight of his armor and the exhaustion in her own limbs. She found a small, secluded alcove—a natural hollow in the rock wall—hidden behind a curtain of thick, glowing moss.
Once inside, she lowered him gently onto the cold ground. The sight of him in the dim light was terrifying. The dinosaur's claws had carved deep into his chest, and Vane's daggers had left a dozen stinging trails across his skin.
"Don't you dare leave me, Azeal," she whispered, her voice trembling as she tore strips from her own silken cloak to make bandages.
She had no magic, but she had the knowledge of the Drazhin healers. She reached into the small leather pouch at her waist, pulling out a rare, pungent root she had carried from the palace gardens. She crushed it between two stones, mixing it with the clear water from a nearby dripping stalactite to create a thick, cooling paste.
As she applied the medicine to his chest, Azeal groaned, his body flinching even in his unconsciousness. Vaelora leaned down, pressing her forehead against his, her tears falling onto his blood-stained skin.
"Stay with me," she pleaded. "You fought for me... now you have to live for me."
Hours bled into what felt like days. Vaelora didn't sleep. She sat by his side, her hand never leaving his. She cleaned his wounds, whispered stories of their childhood to keep the silence at bay, and watched the entrance of the cave like a hawk. Every time a shadow flickered, she gripped her dagger, ready to kill anyone—even Malakor himself—who dared to disturb his rest.
Late into the cycle, Azeal's eyes finally fluttered open. The golden glow had faded, replaced by a dull, aching grey. He looked up at the mossy ceiling, then at Vaelora. She looked exhausted, her face smeared with dirt and his own blood, but to him, she had never looked more beautiful.
"You... you saved me," Azeal rasped, his voice barely a whisper.
Vaelora let out a sob of relief, clutching his hand to her cheek. "I only did what you've been doing since we entered this hell. I kept you alive."
Azeal tried to move, but the pain in his ribs forced a gasp from his lips. He looked at his hands—the hands that had struck the final blow—and a shadow of guilt crossed his face. "I watched him fade, Vaelora," he rasped, his eyes searching hers for answers. "There was no blood... only the mist. I watched my own brother dissolve into the air like he was never there at all."
Vaelora moved closer, pulling his head onto her shoulder. "He wasn't your brother the moment he tried to kill us, Azeal. When he turned to mist, the Abyss simply reclaimed what was already hollow. You didn't murder a man; you allowed a corrupt soul to return to the void."
Azeal closed his eyes, leaning into her warmth. The "Good Heart" of the King was bruised, but in Vaelora's care, it was beginning to heal. They were alone in the heart of the Abyss, two broken souls bound by a blood-stained oath, waiting for the strength to face the final trial.