He'd thought he was hallucinating when Morana suddenly appeared over him, wreathed in flame like a warrior from Hel and wielding a weapon that seemed to be made of pure darkness.

    He'd seen the Corrupted Fae's sword shatter into pieces as though it were little more than glass. Had watched as Morana severed her head from her body with a lethal grace that could only be owed to her bloodline and heritage.

    But now he knew he was hallucinating, because there was no other explanation for what was happening around him. They were teleporting. Moving through the very fabric of reality faster than lightning. He caught glimpses of the world outside of the rift they traveled within and they shouldn't be where they already were.

    He had no idea what Morana was going to do when he told her to take him to Oriana's Pavilion. He just assumed she'd try to drag him there and he'd die on the way, but they were teleporting! Such things shouldn't be possible. Not for Fae like them, yet here they were.

    Tarion lifted his gaze to Morana's face. Her features were screwed in concentration and worry, her eyes sealed shut as she focused on delivering them safely to the Pavilion. Radiant light flickered beneath her skin and Noxbane was glowing with crimson flames.

    This was her. This was the Phoenix, her power now complete with the weapon of her ancestors. He'd never seen anything more beautiful.

    The wind roaring around them went silent as suddenly as it had begun. Tarion let out a groan at the hard impact which jolted his body. He scented fresh air and roses, and heard the soft rippling of water. Morana shook him by the shoulder and he cracked an eye open.

    She sat back on her heels, gaze darting across the tiny island they'd landed on. She tossed Noxbane aside and darted out of sight. Tarion snorted at that. She had tossed, tossed, a legendary and immortal weapon forged by a god like a stick.

    He rolled onto his side in an effort to regain sight of her and cried out at the fresh burst of pain that splintered through him. Blood gushed from the wound across his stomach and his vision blurred.

    "Fuck," Tarion rasped, dragging an arm over his waist.

    His messy cauterizing job had been ripped through again when he was fighting the two remaining Fae. Tarion reached for his magic to reseal the wound, but it guttered out before he could even touch it. He was too exhausted, had lost too much blood.

    "Fuck," he groaned again.

    "Hold on," Morana called from across the island.

    It was even smaller than he remembered. She was still the size of his thumb, despite being at the complete opposite end of the island. A gazebo of ivory wood and gleaming white stone stood in between them, and a well made of the same stone was next to Morana. She was dipping her waterskin into it.

    He laughed at that too. Oriana's priestesses would've been screaming at the indignance of using a mere waterskin instead of the ceremonial chalices they had always provided.

    He could still remember his parents' coronation, held here when he was only six, and his own little ceremony afterwards when he'd been proclaimed his father's heir. They had all drank the blessed water from golden chalices encrusted with gems shaped like the white roses that decorated the island year round.

    Morana came running back to him and dropped to her knees at his side. "My mother would love you," Tarion grunted, managing a hoarse chuckle. "The priestesses would be so upset right now."

    Morana furrowed her brows but slipped a hand beneath his head and tilted it up. "Well, I'm glad your mother would approve of me at least."

    She held the waterskin to his lips and he managed to take a few sips. The water was cool and sweet, tasting of summer's sunlight and budding rose blossoms. Morana set the leather canteen aside and leveled her hands over his stomach wound, her fingers tracing it as she summoned her healing magic.

    Tarion flinched at the brief flashes of pain from her touch before her magic and the healing water began to take effect. Gradually, all lingering aches seeped from his body, leaving only exhaustion behind. Morana was still healing him, light glistening beneath her skin. Tarion blinked slowly, his eyelids growing heavy.

    "That's strange," he said, somehow finding his voice once more. Morana glanced at him, then froze as he lifted his hand to brush his thumb across her cheek. "You didn't shine like this before."

    Morana pushed his hand down and leaned over his throat, her healing touch gentle and ticklish. "Maybe it's an effect of teleporting. The blinding light that surrounded us."

    "No," he murmured. "It's you, Phoenix."

    He touched her again, this time smoothing strands of damp hair back from her face. Her gray eyes were still shadowed by worry. How he longed to sweep it away. His fingers followed the stroke of her jawline while his thumb traced the soft curve of her lips.

    If hers were the last face he saw, he would have died with some semblance of long forgotten peace. He would not die today though. He could feel Oriana's pure waters knitting his flesh back together and restoring his strength. And yet, if it had been today...

    It would have been for her, and it would have been worth it to see a glimpse of her like this. Powerful and brilliant. Not a nameless beauty or the promised Phoenix. Not a Princess of Hel or Hadeon's Heir. Just Morana, in all that she was and who she was becoming.

    "Rest so I can finish healing you," Morana whispered. "You're not yourself right now."

    Tarion ignored her. Damn the lines they could not cross. Damn the consequences. Damn Astaroth right back to Hel. He was alive and so was she, and it was time to start living like they were, and like they still would be after the end of all this. Tarion cupped the nape of her neck in his palm. Morana didn't resist when he pulled her down and pressed their lips together.

    But the moment they met, something went sprawling through him, grabbing his mind and drawing it down into a blissful, numb darkness. His eyes flew open. Morana's palm caressed his cheek as she met his gaze. There was an apologetic smile on her lips.

    "This was a lousy time for a new trick, Birdie..." The words faded to a sigh as his eyes drifted shut once more.

    "I did tell you to rest," she scolded gently, before darkness swept him off completely.

•༻☽☾༺•

    There was very little for Morana to do. The healing properties of the well had already mended most of Tarion's wounds and it reached the rest of them soon after she began treating them. Then, all she could do was sit and wait, her mind churning with confusion.

    He had not been himself, she knew, so what he'd done... Had those been Tarion's actions, fully intended, or the actions of someone wounded and delirious? She didn't know, but she couldn't stop seeing that look on his face. How deeply he'd been studying her, as if seeing her for the first time.

    He had touched her so gently, but each one had lingered on her skin like a warm brand. She could still feel the ghost of his touch. Of his lips against hers. Her throat constricted and she pried her gaze away from Tarion's relaxed features.

    He'd refused to kiss her before. Why had he done so now? How complicated would things become when he awoke? Would he even remember doing it? "Oh gods," Morana whispered, hiding her face in her hands. "Could I even bring myself to tell him if he doesn't remember?"

    She pursed her lips and let her hands fall, looking at Tarion once more. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, she ripped a piece of fabric from the hem of his shirt. She soaked it in the last of the water from her waterskin and bent over Tarion again.

    His features remained peaceful as she wiped the blood from his face, neck, and arms. She folded up the bottom of his shirt so she could reach his stomach, but didn't remove it completely. Morana glanced at his face several times while she worked.

    She wasn't sure how long her sleeping spell would last or if he'd be upset when he woke. She'd found the spell while they were at the library and it seemed like one that would come in handy occasionally, so she'd memorized it. This was the first time she'd attempted it.

    Morana grimaced and set the now bloodied wad of fabric aside. That definitely wasn't her greatest idea. Suppose she really did turn him into the Sleeping Heir? She pushed the thought aside and stood. The moon was high overhead, but she had no desire to sleep now. She might as well explore Oriana's Pavilion while she passed the time.

    Still, something inside her fought with every step she took away from Tarion. Morana resisted the feeling and stepped into the gazebo. Moonlight reflected off every pale surface, catching in elegant arches and dancing off of crystals embedded in the scrolling designs.

    Trees blossomed around the structure, their trunks matching the white wood of the gazebo, while their still green leaves were the only differing color on the entire island. Moon-white roses filled every other vacant patch of ground.

    The three conjoining rivers around the island almost seemed to sing as they streamed by, the only sound interrupting the stillness over the Pavilion. The stories Morana had read portrayed the island as Oriana's favorite place to visit when she lived in the mortal realm.

    She had planted these trees and rose bushes and tended to them as one would a child. When she was called to Ascend, it was from her island that she chose to do so. Afterwards, her daughter, Queen Idalia, had the gazebo built and decreed the Pavilion a temple and shrine to her mother.

    Morana walked the entire length of the island multiple times, until the day's exhaustion finally caught up to her. When her legs were threatening to give out, Morana returned to their makeshift campsite.

    She sprawled out near Tarion and a shield encompassed them, offering warmth and protection throughout the remainder of the night. Soon after, sleep beckoned her away.