Chapter 23: Tristan’s Burden
Chapter 23: Tristan’s Burden
“Tristan, wake up!” Evelyn’s voice cracked as she shook him, her hands slick with marsh mud, the air heavy with rot and stagnant water. The portal’s red glow faded, leaving them sprawled in the Whispering Marshes, the ground sucking at her boots, the croak of frogs sharp in the fog. Her rune pulsed, the new glyph from Aeloria burning like a fresh wound, its golden lines glowing faintly. Tristan lay limp, his face pale as bone, blood trickling from his nose, the amulet clutched in his hand, its blue light dim.
“Come on!” she urged, dragging him to a gnarled root, its bark slimy under her fingers. She fumbled in her satchel, the Chronicle of the Cliff thudding against her side, and pulled out herbs from Morgana’s hut, crushed sage and bitterroot, their scent sharp as she mashed them with her dagger’s hilt, its rose sigil warm. She pressed the paste to his lips, the fog clinging to her cloak, the air cold and damp. “Swallow, damn it!”
Tristan’s eyes fluttered, a weak cough rattling his chest, blood flecking the mud. “Evelyn…” he rasped, his voice barely audible, his hand gripping hers, cold and trembling. “I’ve been lying… the amulet… it’s forbidden magic. Draws on my life force. Every jump… it’s killing me.”
Her rune flared, hot as a brand, her heart lurching. “You knew?” she snapped, her voice breaking, tears stinging her eyes as she smeared more herbs on his lips, their bitterness stinging her fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The marshes’ whispers taunted, He’s dying for you, the fog swirling green, the ground bubbling with each breath.
“Had to,” he gasped, his smile faint, pained, the bruises on his arm pulsing like her rune. “You’re the blood heir. Stopping Azrael, the spirit… it’s bigger than me.” He coughed again, blood staining his sleeve, the amulet’s glow flickering, the air thick with his sweat and regret.
“Stop it!” Evelyn shouted, gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his cloak, the fabric rough. “No more jumps, Tristan! I’m not losing you!” Her voice trembled, the rune’s heat surging, Aeloria’s words, two hearts united, echoing, her vow to save him fiercer than ever. “We’ll find another way, Morgana, the witch, someone!”
He shook his head, his breath shallow, his hand fumbling at his neck, pulling a locket, silver, etched with a hawk, his family’s crest. “If I fall,” he whispered, pressing it into her hand, its metal cold, heavy, “keep this. My bloodline… it’s why the amulet works. Only I can wield it, but it’s why… it’s killing me.”
Evelyn clutched the locket, her throat tight, the rune pulsing with a sudden vision. A healer, cloaked in gray, stood in the Twilight Citadel, her hands glowing as she tended Aeloria’s wounds centuries ago. The vision faded, the rune’s new glyph glowing, its heat grounding her. “There’s a healer,” she said, her voice urgent, tucking the locket into her satchel, its weight beside the Chronicle. “In the Citadel. After we seal the spirit, we find her, for you.”
Tristan’s eyes softened, but his cough worsened, blood dripping onto the mud, the fog parting to reveal the marshes’ eerie glow. “You don’t give up,” he said, his voice weak but warm, his hand brushing hers, callused and faint. “But Azrael’s close. We can’t stop now.”
A distant explosion rocked the marshes, the ground trembling, the air sharp with smoke and burning wood. Evelyn’s rune flared, her dagger drawn, the blade glinting. “What was that?” she demanded, helping Tristan sit, his weight heavy, the fog swirling with embers, the stench of charred flesh drifting from a nearby village.
“Azrael,” Tristan rasped, his hand tightening on the amulet, its runes flickering. “Burning villages… hunting you. His wraiths, they’re tracking your rune.” He tried to stand, swaying, the air humming with the marshes’ whispers, Blood heir, you’ll fail.
Evelyn pulled him up, her boots squelching, the sage’s scent clinging to her hands. “We move,” she said, her voice fierce, her sword clinking at her hip, its leather creaking. “Back to Morgana’s path, to the portal. We’ll deal with the spirit, then the healer.” Her resolve burned, but Tristan’s locket weighed heavy, his sacrifice mirroring Aeloria’s, the rune’s new glyph a constant sting.
They staggered forward, the fog thickening, the ground soft, the croak of frogs louder, the air colder. Tristan’s cough echoed, his breath steaming, the amulet’s glow cutting through the mist. Evelyn’s rune pulsed, her senses sharp, the marshes’ whispers growing, He dies for you, like Rowan betrayed you. She shook them off, gripping Tristan’s arm, his cloak damp under her fingers.
The amulet flared, its blue light surging uncontrollably, runes blazing, the air crackling like a storm. “Not now!” Tristan shouted, his voice panicked, blood streaming from his nose as he tried to stop it, his hand shaking. The fog swirled, a vortex opening, the marshes blurring, the stench of rot fading to fresh earth and pine.
“Hold on!” Evelyn yelled, clutching him, her rune burning, the locket’s weight grounding her. The time-slip yanked them, the world dissolving, and they landed in a sunlit meadow, the air warm with wildflowers, the chirp of birds soft. Young Evelyn, barely ten, stood with a young Tristan, their laughter bright, carving a rosewood tree with a knife, her voice clear: “I’ll always protect you, Tristan.”
Evelyn froze, her rune pulsing, tears welling, the memory, before her sacrifice, before Rowan, raw in her chest. “This is us,” she whispered, her voice breaking, the meadow’s warmth mocking the marshes’ cold, the locket’s crest heavy in her satchel. Tristan swayed, his eyes glassy, blood dripping onto the grass, the amulet’s glow dim, the memory’s light fading as the portal hummed, threatening to pull them deeper.