The Weight of Fate
Zyra didn't remember how she got Kieran away from the battlefield.
Her mind was a blur of magic, exhaustion, and sheer desperation. All she knew was that she had carried him, dragged him through the ruins of their battle, through the shattered remnants of the world they had nearly destroyed.
Now, hours later, they were hidden deep within the Blackthorn Forest.
The towering trees stretched endlessly around them, their twisted branches draped in silver mist. A place untouched by mortals, shrouded in myth and magic. A place where fate itself felt heavier.
Kieran lay still beside her, his body fevered, his breathing shallow.
The tendrils of darkness that had consumed him were gone—but something was still wrong.
Zyra pressed her palm to his forehead. Too hot. His body radiated heat, burning like a dying star. His magic was unstable, flickering wildly beneath his skin.
She bit her lip, fear curling inside her.
He needed to wake up.
Now.
"Kieran," she whispered, shaking his shoulder.
No response.
Her throat tightened.
No, no, no.
He had fought for his life, for his soul—he wouldn't leave her now.
"Kieran, wake up," she commanded, her voice breaking.
Still nothing.
Desperation clawed at her chest. She pressed a hand to his heart, feeling its erratic, uneven rhythm. His power was spiraling. If he didn't wake up soon, he could—
No.
She wouldn't let that happen.
She refused.
With trembling hands, she drew on the fire within her. Their fire.
Her magic surged to life, filling her palms with golden flame.
She pressed her hands to his chest—and poured everything into him.
Heat blazed through her veins, the fire crackling as it collided with his unstable power. Sparks of golden and black energy snapped through the air, the force almost too much to control.
"Kieran," she choked out, forcing her power deeper into him.
She had to reach him. Had to pull him back.
His body jerked.
Then—a gasp.
Zyra barely had time to react before Kieran's eyes snapped open—molten gold and abyssal black clashing in a battle for dominance.
And then—
Everything exploded.
---
A Storm Unleashed
A blast of energy ripped through the air, sending Zyra flying back.
She slammed into a tree, the impact rattling through her bones. A sharp cry tore from her lips as pain flared through her ribs.
But she didn't stop.
Didn't hesitate.
Because in front of her—Kieran wasn't himself.
He was on his knees, hands clawing at the ground, magic swirling violently around him. His breaths were ragged, his muscles shaking as he fought something unseen.
The abyss still had its claws in him.
"No," Zyra whispered, scrambling to her feet. "No, you are not taking him."
She lunged forward—only for a wave of pure darkness to slam into her.
Zyra gasped as it coiled around her, pinning her against the tree. A shadow's grip.
A hiss of laughter curled through the air—not Kieran's.
It was deeper, ancient. The voice of the abyss itself.
You cannot save him, little flame.
Zyra's pulse pounded.
Watch, as he becomes ours.
"No," she snarled, fire surging around her body. She struggled against the hold, but the abyss was strong.
Kieran let out a ragged cry. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as the shadows wrapped tighter around him.
He was fighting.
But he was losing.
Zyra refused to let that happen.
With a burst of fire, she shattered the shadow's grip.
The abyss shrieked in fury as she launched herself forward, grabbing Kieran's face in her hands.
"Kieran!" she yelled, forcing him to look at her.
His eyes—flickering between gold and black.
Fate was tearing him apart.
But she was his mate.
And she would bring him back.
She crashed her lips against his, pouring everything into him—her fire, her magic, her soul.
The abyss howled.
Kieran stiffened.
Then—his magic surged forward, wrapping around hers.
The shadows recoiled.
The black in his eyes shattered.
And Kieran collapsed into her arms.
---
The Aftermath
Zyra held him tightly, gasping for breath. The air was thick with fading magic, the forest silent once more.
Kieran's head rested against her shoulder, his breathing uneven—but his power had settled.
He was himself.
And he was alive.
She let out a shaky breath, pressing her forehead to his.
"You're back," she whispered.
His fingers curled weakly around hers.
"I never left," he murmured.
A soft, breathless laugh escaped her.
Liar.
But she didn't care.
She had him.
And **nothing—**not the abyss, not fate, not even the gods—was going to take him from her again.
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