Tyla’s POV
The Splitting
Ash’s hand hovered between us, the half-Mark inside it pulsing like a dying star.
Fractured light.
Broken magic.
A heartbeat that didn’t belong to him anymore.
The shadows binding his ankles climbed higher, clinging to his ribs like fingers desperate to pull him under.
“Tyla,” he whispered, barely audible, “please. If you don’t take it… the moon takes both of us.”
The void trembled.
The realm dimmed.
Something ancient shifted above us, watching.
Arthur squeezed my hand—not forcing, not guiding—just grounding.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
I tore my gaze from Ash and met Arthur’s eyes.
Warm.
Human.
Alive.
The only thing in this realm that felt like home.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” Arthur said quietly. “Not to the moon. Not to him. Not to me.”
