Chapter 195: The Blood of my Mate
The ruin breathed like a dying beast, stone heaving, scorched air pulsing with every gust of smoke. Ash drifted through shattered archways like falling snow, clinging to broken beams and torn banners, coating blood and bone alike in a grey funeral shroud.
Aryia moved fast, each breath searing down her throat, raw and acrid. The coppery tang of blood mixed with the oily stench of burned magic, stale wards, melted sigils and the rotted breath of something sealed for far too long. Her heartbeat was a drum behind her ribs. Every step was agony, but the terror swelling in her chest was worse.
She didn’t flinch when the floor creaked under her boots or when distant screams echoed through the hollowed-out halls of Maedor’s fortress.
She was beyond fear now.
Only one thought drove her forward.
Cassian. Her mate.
She had never spoken the word aloud. Never dared name what had burned between them since the day their bond ignited like a scar across her soul. But the bond had quietly and persistently spoken for them. In every breath and every glance they took beside one another. Every time he stood between her and death.
But now, she was panicking because it was fraying.
She could feel it, not snapping and not severed, but unraveling like silk dragged through thorns. Like he was being pulled somewhere dark, buried under a mountain of silence and blood.
They were hiding him or worse, using him.
Aryia rounded a corner, descending into a narrow corridor lined with soot-covered stone and blackened iron sconces. The torches here burned low, smoke curling sluggishly into the stale air. The farther she moved from the central hall, the colder the air became. The heat of battle was behind her, what came next was older and burned deeper in her core, screaming danger.
She stopped.
There, half-buried in rubble, a door still intact, old glyphs glowing faintly along its charred surface.
She approached and the air around it tasted bitter, like rusted metal and poisoned wine. Her magic recoiled before her hand even touched the frame.
It was an ancient war that was built to reject her bloodline.
At this point, she didn’t care.
She shoved her palm against the glyphs, and pain erupted, it was bright and white, lancing through her arm like fire. Her skin blistered, the scent of seared flesh curling into her nose. She grit her teeth, pushing deeper and harder.
Cassian was engraved in her essence which took away the unbearable pain. She thought of his voice, his hands and the quiet way he said her name when the world burned around them and only they remained. That’s when the seal cracked and shattered.
The door groaned open, dust spilling into the corridor like a sigh from the dead.
The air inside was different, dense and fetid. The scent of decay clung to the walls, old blood soaked into the stones. Faint whispers flitted across the edges of hearing, like voices speaking from behind a veil, words too old to understand. Her boots hit the floor with hollow thuds as she stepped forward and down, always down.
The corridor sloped into shadow, the flicker of dying torches barely lighting the slick stone. Water dripped somewhere, rhythmic, steady, like a heartbeat echoing through the dark.
Then she sensed movement. A flash of fabric. The soft rasp of metal drawn from a sheath.
Aryia dropped low, dagger already in hand, her pulse thundering. Her senses screamed. She could smell the sweat and steel. The faint perfume of whatever death magic they’d cloaked themselves in.
They were waiting.
There they were, four shadows and one cloaked in crimson, standing behind them, tall, still, his breath too slow and too calm.
“We told them she’d come,” the figure murmured, his voice like bone scraping against stone. “The mate always does.”
Aryia didn’t speak. Didn’t ask what they’d done to Cassian. She blatantly attacked. That’s what she had been taught through blood and pain. Leave the chit chat behind and focus on your prey.
The first moved like a blur, his blade glinting with poison. She ducked beneath it and drove her dagger into his gut. He gasped, hot blood spraying across her wrist and crumpled.
The second came from the side. She twisted, parried and struck his thigh. His scream was muffled by her elbow slamming into his throat.
But the third was faster and more precise managed to land a blow. The knife sliced clean through her bicep. Pain bloomed red and hot. The scent of her own blood hit her nose like iron, sharp and alive. She staggered, vision flaring white.
Still, she continued to move. In a way she could be thankful for all the unbearable training she had received.
A scream, hers or his, ripped through the hall as she shoved her blade into his side and tore upward. The crunch of bone made her stomach turn, but she didn’t stop. Just couldn’t afford stopping.
The fourth remained still.
He was unnaturally tall and pale. His blade shimmered with Umbrazin silver. He wasn’t breathing. Her instincts screamed.
She backed against the wall, eyes darting and magic faltering beneath her skin. Too much blood lost. Her knees trembled. Her heart stuttered. The ward’s backlash had taken more from her than she’d thought.
But the bond, Cassian’s presence, was still there. It was weak and flickering, but she was close, so close.
The assassin raised his blade. She braced for the strike and then… the corridor exploded in gold. Light shattered the shadows like glass.
The assassin was flung backward, crashing into the stone wall with a sound like thunder. Aryia dropped to her knees, gasping and vision swimming.
Boots thundered in.
“MOVE!” Vincent roared.
Steel clashed and magic crackled. She heard Brienne’s cry and Alaine’s snarl. The hiss of Isla’s power ripping through the air like a blade made of lightning.
Smoke curled up in every direction, thick and choking. The copper stench of fresh blood filled the air again. Her head spun.
The crimson-robed figure turned into mist, slipping between dimensions, but not before his final words echoed:
“The mate always comes. But she never leaves.”
Then he was gone and silence followed.
Vincent knelt beside her, one hand steadying her head. His fingers were warm and callused. Blood coated his clothing and jaw, but his eyes were wild with worry.
“You should’ve waited,” he said, voice tight.
“There wasn’t time,” she rasped. “They’re using him. He is… he’s close. I felt him.”
Brienne crouched beside them, checking her wound, expression unreadable. “Can you walk?”
Aryia nodded. She could barely hold herself up.
“I’ll carry her,” Vincent offered.
“No,” Aryia snarled. “I’m not watching someone else hold me while they hold him in chains.”
Alaine’s brow furrowed. “Then we finish this.”
Leo’s sword was still slick with blood. “And we kill whatever waits down there.”
Isla’s eyes glowed, storm-bright. “We find him. We end this.”
Aryia pushed to her feet, heart hammering.
The corridor ahead pulsed.
She could feel him, Cassian, alive but hurt and calling to her…
This time, they wouldn’t take him over. This time, she'd tear the world down first.