Resurrection (Book Three of the Soul Forge series)

Something was wrong. Elda felt the very moment it happened, something inside her twisting until it broke.

She'd busied herself with the documents and ledgers needed to organise the festival she was throwing for the refugees - anything to distract her from her husband's absence.

Guilt ate her alive. She'd crushed Vel. Yelled at him for lying to her when all this time, she'd been lying to herself. She wasn't okay. She wasn't healed. Her dreams were haunted every night, Vel's face the herald of her nightmare. But he was mortal, and without that otherworldly bond they shared as Soul Forge and Keeper, he could not see her thoughts and he could not read her dreams.

So she'd deceived him - everyone - and then had the gall to yell at him for the same thing she was guilty of. And he hadn't lied, not really. She hadn't asked, hadn't event thought to, because Julian had been feeding regularly and he laughed and smiled more often.

She realised that it was to hide the grief rotting away in his soul. A mask he donned to conceal the suffering he really felt.

And now something else was wrong. Something earth-shattering, world-altering. Something that made her stomach churn and her pulse race. She shoved aside the many papers and books and stumbled for the library door, breaking into a run in her desperation to get cool, clean air into her lungs.

The bite of winter was enough to drive back the nausea, but not dispel it. When she was certain she wouldn't empty her stomach on the courtyard steps, she looked up to see the sun was setting. The burnt orange rays highlighted the first flickers of torches winding their way to the main gates. Lots of them - too many.

More villages have fallen, Cain supplied. She sensed through their connection that he was flying, and when she looked up she saw his red scales glinting in the dusky light as he circled above the stream of refugees.

She set off at a jog, not stopping to speak to anyone as she made her way through the streets and down to the gates. The refugees milling past were dirt-streaked and weary, their faces drawn and haggard. Children of varying ages cried to their mothers, missing the fathers that had opted to stay behind.

Something clicked into place. Something that sent the nausea crashing through her so hard it made her dizzy. Sypher had gone away after the fight and hadn't returned. He must be helping the village these people came from.

Fear dragged its cold, clammy fingers down her spine, urging her onwards to gently take the arm of a frail old woman. When Elda asked where she came from, the village name was unfamiliar. When she asked some more people further back, a different name was given. And another, and another. None of them had seen the Soul Forge in their village, though she learned he had stopped and talked to someone not far outside of Eden.

There were so many refugees, so many villages lost. It took until the light had faded and stars were twinkling coldly in the winter night to reach the end of that enormous trail of fleeing civilians. And there, at the very back, was a face she knew.

"Sorrel!" Elda gasped, springing forwards and grabbing Sorrel's hands. The woman blinked, then her face crumpled and she began to cry. The Princess looked left, then right, searching for the twinkle of familiar green eyes.

"He stayed behind," Sorrel sniffled. "Your husband went to help."

Kilmarthen. Kilmarthen had fallen. Wind rushed in her ears at the knowledge that the devastating plague had made it so far inland so soon.

Cain, we have to go, Elda fired off to her dragon.

No need, he replied. My mother returns. His mental voice, usually so strong and proud, was soft. Stricken.

Soon enough, Ember's great black wings blotted out the stars, nothing but a phantom against the inky backdrop of night. She circled down, down, down, and landed thirty feet away from everyone. Elda watched someone slide off her back and land heavily in the dirt, staggering a step before righting himself.

A second figure dismounted, his smooth gait punching the breath from her lungs. Her heart flipped at Sypher running a hand down Ember's scales the way he always did when he finished a flight with her. Safe and alive. Alive and safe. It took everything she had not to run to him. Not to throw herself into his arms and sob at the sight of him.

Cain was still staring, his burning orange eyes wide, lips parted to reveal his fangs, so still he was hardly breathing as he gaped at his mother.

How long does he have? Cain murmured, broadcasting the thought for all to hear.

"I don't know," Sypher replied before Ember could speak.

Elda frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Sypher responded by holding up his left hand, wrapped in a makeshift bandage. "Kilmarthen was attacked by a horde of the undead. I was scratched. I don't know how long I have before I become one of them."

The roaring in her ears drowned out whatever Edward said next, her thoughts grinding to a halt, unable to do anything but stare at that bandage. When the gears in her brain finally started turning again, she shook her head.

"You don't know that. You don't know there's nothing to be done. You should see Fennix right now."

"What I should do is stay out of Eden and far away from anyone," Sypher argued immediately.

"Come with me to see the healer," she pleaded. "I need you to see Fennix."

He assessed her, sizing up the tears in her eyes and the tremble in her legs. Something in his resolve faltered, and his stony mask slipped to reveal the exhaustion beneath. His head dipped into a nod, shoulders and wings drooping.

"Alright." He mounted Ember without protest, hauling Edward up behind him, and Elda climbed Cain's back to follow, both dragons launching into the sky with a few flaps of their mighty wings.

The cold air did nothing to dispel the crushing sickness permeating Elda's entire being. She sucked in deep, desperate breaths to stop herself vomiting, continuing to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth when they landed in the courtyard and disappeared inside.

Sypher's strides were long, determined to reach the infirmary and leave as quickly as possible. Elda hurried to keep up, thankful that they didn't run into any of their friends on their journey to the healer.

Fennix was organising rolls of bandages with his wisened hands when the pair stormed in, pausing to look up at them. Wordlessly, his piercing eyes tracked straight to the hasty bandage on Sypher's hand, his gift telling him what was wrong without the need for an explanation.

"Sit," he instructed, the word scratching from his throat as though he hadn't spoken in many hours. Elda watched Sypher perch on the edge of one of the beds and unwind the black fabric around his knuckles.

"Can you fix it?" she asked, watching the old man study the wound.

"I've gathered all the information I can on this plague," he murmured. "Transmission method, incubation period, symptoms, every scrap of knowledge I can glean from battle reports and the stories the refugees have to tell." Fennix took Sypher's hand in his gnarled fingers. "I have saved none."

"You can save him," Elda insisted.

"I cannot." Fennix peered more closely at those two thin lines bisecting Sypher's knuckles, at the very slightly raised skin, the faintest hint of infection. "Medicine does not work. Amputation, even immediately, does not work. My gift does not work." He let go of Sypher's hand. "This plague is born of twisted magic so ancient that I can't even begin to understand it."

"Do you have any idea how long I have before it turns me?"

"Judging by similar wounds I've seen on other refugees, days. A week at most."

"You're not even going to try?" Elda choked out.

"Using any of my remedies or magic is futile, my dear," Fennix explained carefully. "All that can be done now is to enjoy what time you have, and keep a weapon close by when the time comes."

The Princess of Eden ran to the small sink in the corner of the room and vomited. Fresh rain, vetiver and leather surrounded her, the scent marred by the embers of a fire and the tang of blood. Sypher's hand swept her hair back, the other rubbing gentle circles between her shoulder blades.

When the heaving stopped, she was trembling all over. Sypher leaned over and set the faucet running to clean the evidence of her distress away, then folded her into a tight hug.

"I know you and I are supposed to be fighting," he murmured, the words rumbling through his chest. She clung to him, burying her face in his neck. "But I would hate to waste the time I have left being apart."

"You're not leaving my side," she sobbed, her arms tightening around him.

Fennix cleared his throat. "I will tell you what I know, so you know how to monitor your remaining days." Sypher carefully stepped away from her, keeping a steadying hand on the small of her back as he turned to face the healer. "You will experience fatigue, nausea, and headaches in the first day or two. Then you will lose your appetite. Your limbs will turn numb, starting from the wound and spreading outwards. Then a fever will set in, and the fever will kill you."

"Is there a way to slow it down?" Elda asked, listening to her own voice shake.

"No. I must also warn you that you cannot lay together. You cannot kiss one another. The infection is spread through bodily fluids. Blood, saliva and the like. Once the patient is deceased, the infection blooms on their skin as well." Fennix shook his head. "I have never known such lethal, cruel magic as this."

"I have," Sypher replied quietly. "Thank you, Fennix."

"Be careful, Soul Forge. You are unlike any other. Your symptoms and their timings may be different." The old man bowed his head. "I'm sorry I cannot help you."

"I knew you wouldn't be able to. Don't feel guilty."

Elda felt hollowed out when Sypher took her hand and guided her out of the infirmary. "Hephaestus should be helping you," she mumbled, planting her feet when they were halfway down the hall and forcing him to stop.

"I asked Hephaestus for help on the battlefield before I was scratched," he admitted softly. "My only answer was silence. He won't help me. Perhaps he can't."

"What happened to the other survivors?"

"They decided to travel on horseback and unguarded when they learned I was infected."

"You risked your life for them and they were still afraid of you?"

"I'm a danger to them, El. To you and everyone else in this city. They did the smart thing." He squeezed her hand with his uninjured one, the one still covered by a glove. "I don't suppose you would listen if I told you to do the same?"

She looked up at him, at his beautiful face and striking, mismatched eyes. Tears welled up in her own. "I will be right here with you when your heart stops beating."