The Moon-root pulsed violently as Nicero drew the vessel toward it, his magic flaring like a storm beneath his skin. I felt Papa’s presence tugged from my chest, stretched thin between worlds.
“No,” I gasped. “You’re pulling him apart—”
“He’s not anchored,” Nicero said tightly. “Your mate-bond collapse destabilized the line. If we don’t bind him now, he won’t survive the night.”
“What do you need from me?” I cried.
His eyes snapped open. “Your blood.”
I didn’t ask where.
I slashed my palm across the obsidian edge of the altar before he could move, crimson spilling onto the stone. The Moon-root reacted instantly—its veins lighting up, tendrils unfurling toward me like hungry serpents.
Nicero caught my wrist, pressing my bleeding palm against the root.
Pain lanced up my arm.
It wasn’t physical. It was ancestral.
Memories not mine flooded my senses—wolves running beneath a crimson sky, blood-oaths sworn over fallen kings, children branded with destiny before they could walk.
I screamed as the root wrapped around my arm, silver light threading into my veins.
Papa’s soul-vessel glowed brighter.
Then steadied.
I collapsed to my knees, gasping, my head spinning violently.