IRIS' P.O.V.
Ascension.
The word echoed in my mind, strange and sharp like glass underfoot.
“What does that even mean?” I asked, still cradled in the silence of the scorched clearing. “Ascension? Is that your fancy word for going nuclear and hoping I don’t blow up my own face?”
Blake didn’t answer immediately.
Because for once, he didn’t seem to have one.
He crouched beside me, his face pale beneath the bruises and burn marks. His hands hovered near my shoulder like he wanted to help but was afraid touching me would ignite another wave of power.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’ve never seen anything like that, Iris. Not even close.”
I blinked. “Say that again.”
“I. Don’t. Know,” he repeated, slower. “And I hate that more than you do.”
I stared at him.
Blake—my stoic, unshak
