Chapter 112 — The Final Blow
The Bonecaster’s eyes widened, lips trembling as the glowing blade pressed into her throat.
“You killed my mother,” Giselle said, voice shaking with a fury that ran bone-deep. “You tried to destroy my home. And now—you’re going to find out just how wrong that was.”
Before her aunt could utter another word, Giselle surged forward with one fluid motion. Her blade, lit with the power of her magic and Avella’s, arced through the air with deadly grace and precision. It sliced clean through the Bonecaster’s neck, separating her head from her body in a single, final stroke.
Her aunt's eyes were still open as they hit the dirt. A look of disbelief forever frozen on her face.
The battle didn’t end with a thunderous roar.
It ended with silence.
Giselle stood there, chest heaving, sword lowered but still glowing faintly in her hand as the headless body slumped to the blood-soaked earth.
Around her, the sounds of growling and tearing claws began to falter.
She turned slowly, gaze sweeping across the battlefield.
The Bonecaster’s wolves had all paused in confusion, many of them dazed and blinking as if waking from a nightmare. Several shook their heads, bodies trembling, bloodied claws falling to their sides. One by one, they stopped attacking. They looked around themselves—at the blood, at the fallen, at the carnage they had helped create—and confusion rippled through the lines like a wave.
Giselle’s heart twisted. They hadn’t known.
They hadn’t been fighting by choice.
She could feel it now—that tether of dark magic severed. The Bonecaster had been controlling them, forcing them to tear each other apart. And now that she was gone, they were lost.
A surge of empathy rushed through her—not forgiveness, but understanding.
She lifted her face to the wind and sent her voice across the packlink.
‘Stop fighting. Only defend if you're attacked. Don’t hurt them. They aren’t the enemy anymore.’
There was a beat of hesitation, then silence answered across the link as the wolves of Rowan’s pack obeyed.
Snarls turned into stumbles.
Teeth bared in defense began to lower.
The enemy wolves glanced from one another to the glowing woman in the center of the battlefield, still standing over the Bonecaster’s corpse. They saw no retaliation. No attack. Only a quiet, tense ceasefire.
The survivors began to retreat—slowly at first, ears pinned back, uncertain. But when no one pursued, they turned and began to run. Away from the valley. Away from the blood. Away from the nightmare that had used them as pawns.
Giselle didn’t watch them go.
She turned, her breath catching.
Rowan.
He still lay where she had last seen him, slumped against a fallen tree, his dark hair plastered to his pale face. Blood covered his side—too much of it. His eyes were closed now, the rise and fall of his chest shallow.
“No,” she whispered, feet already moving. “No, no, no—”
She dropped to her knees beside him, the glowing sword clattering to the ground. Her trembling hands pressed to his chest, his shoulder, his cheek—anywhere she could feel him.
“Rowan,” she choked out, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. “Please open your eyes. I’m here. I’m here now.”
His skin was cold.
Too cold.
Her magic sparked, wild and panicked, pouring into him as if she could somehow restart his heart, as if she could will him to stay with her through sheer force of love and desperation.
“Please,” she begged, leaning her forehead to his. “You promised me. You promised you’d find me again. Don’t you dare leave me now.”
Her tears hit his face, mingling with the dirt and blood on his skin.
“I chose you,” she whispered brokenly. “I’ll always choose you. So don’t you dare not choose me back.”
The battlefield lay quiet around them. The light breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the scent of smoke and blood and dying magic.
But Giselle didn’t care. All that mattered was the man in her arms.
Giselle didn’t hear Seren approach—didn’t feel anything but the unbearable weight of Rowan’s stillness against her legs. His head lay cradled in her lap, her fingers threaded through his hair, her body trembling with the sobs she could no longer contain.
Her tears fell in endless rivers, soaking into the collar of his blood-soaked shirt. His skin had gone pale—too pale—and his lips held a bluish tinge that sent her spiraling into a deeper darkness.
She had been too late.
Too late to save him. Too late to stop this.
She felt Seren’s presence beside her like a soft shimmer in the magic around her. Warm and quiet. But it didn’t ease the ache inside her chest.
Giselle didn’t look up as she whispered, brokenly, “He’s gone.” The words sliced her tongue like glass. Saying them made it real.
A sob tore from her lips, raw and animalistic. She curled forward slightly, holding his face as though her touch could anchor him to this world, even now. “I was right here. I was right here. And I couldn’t save him…”
Seren knelt slowly beside her. She said nothing for a moment, just watched—her quiet strength filling the silence where hope had once lived. She placed a hand gently on Giselle’s arm, her voice soft, but sure.
“Not gone yet.”
Giselle’s head jerked up, her tear-stained face crumpled in confusion and pain. “What?” she whispered, barely able to speak.
Seren’s golden eyes met hers, calm and unwavering. “He’s not gone yet,” she repeated. “You can still save him.”
Giselle’s heart fluttered, caught between disbelief and a desperate yearning. She looked down at Rowan’s still form, the hollow echo of his fading bond tugging at her soul.
“But—he’s not breathing. I can’t feel him. The bond… it’s so faint—” Her voice broke again, her throat closing with emotion.
Seren touched his chest gently, then looked back at Giselle. “He’s farther away than he’s ever been. But not beyond your reach. Not yet. If you believe—if you truly believe—you can call him back.”
Giselle stared at her, disbelief and agony warring inside her.
“How?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “Tell me how.”
Seren reached out and gently pressed a hand over Giselle’s heart. “You already know how,” she said softly. “You just have to let go of everything else—fear, grief, doubt—and call him with everything you are. You’re his anchor, Giselle. Call him home.”
Giselle looked down at him again, brushing a lock of dark hair from his brow with trembling fingers.
He looked peaceful. Like he was already gone.
But no… she wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept that.
Not after everything they had survived. Not after the sacrifices they had made.
Her tears still flowed, but now they burned with something more.
Hope.
She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to his.
Then she reached inward, into the raw, unfiltered place where her soul and Rowan’s had once danced like stars in the dark. She pushed past her fear, her grief, her guilt—until only love remained. Fierce and bright and unshakable.
She poured it into that invisible thread that still tethered them together, frayed though it was. She poured her love, her strength, her belief into it.
“Come back to me,” she whispered across the bond, her lips brushing his skin. “Please, Rowan. I’m here. I’ve always been here. Come back to me.”
The wind stirred around them, brushing her hair like a caress. Somewhere deep inside her, she felt something shift.
A flicker.
A spark.
And for the first time since the battle ended, she dared to hope that maybe, just maybe—
He was listening.
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