CHAPTER 79: LIABILITY

For a heartbeat, she could not move. The world narrowed to the sound of its roar.

That guttural, shaking thing that tore through the night like the earth itself had come alive to scream. The beast hit the ground with a sound like thunder, mud and blood and air splitting apart beneath its weight. Its form blurred as it came at her, a horror motion of muscle and claws and shadow.

It was too fast, far too fast for any human to catch up that for one frozen instant, she swore she saw her reflection in its eyes — not herself, not really, just a prey.

Every instinct screamed move, and somehow, her body did before her mind could catch up.

She threw herself sideways, legs slipping on the slick ground. The beast’s claw struck where she had been, missing only by inches. The earth cracked, soil exploding upward, a shard of splintered wood slicing her arm as she hit the ground hard.

Pain flared white-hot, but she did not stop. She rolled as she gasped, mud splattering across her clothes as she scrambled backward. Her breath tore out of her in short, ragged bursts that her lungs felt too small to contain it.

The knight who had been flung moments before tried to rise, sword trembling in his grip. "Princess!"

The beast turned on him only for a brief moment and snarled. She heard the clash of steel and rip of flesh somewhere, making her feel numb where she was. But still she forced herself onto her knees, pushing through the pain and panic clouding her thoughts.

Move. You have to move!

Her pulse pounded so loud it drowned everything else out. Every heartbeat was a hammer in her skull. She stumbled toward the nearest lantern post and reached out, searching for anything she could use. But her fingers met only splinters and air.

Then came that sound again, the dragging scrape of claws.

And before she knew it, as she clung onto the post as if it was her only anchor, the beast’s shadow loomed before her, taller than any man, a thing stitched from the worst pieces of nightmare and decay, making every nerves in her to pulse in alarm upon the danger.

She dared to look at it, albeit slowly.

Its skin seemed to ripple with the light of the burning ward-flames around the camp, its limbs were bent wrong, too many joints where there should not be. And its face — Saints

, its face was a twisted mask of bone and flesh and hunger.

"H-Harken—" She tried to call for the Captain, only to hear his faint voice desperately calling after her and the others.

The marks on her arms pulsed faintly once, then bolder, spreading like spilled ink under her skin. She could barely register the fact that her arm was bleeding, that somewhere in her fall, a splinter of wood had carved a long, burning trail across her forearm. The cut stung sharp and wet, blood mingling with the dark veins now crawling beneath the surface.

Her breath hitched. The sight did not make sense where her blood met the marks, the black seemed to stir, thickening like smoke caught under glass when a cold weight suddenly slammed her back against the post. Air ripped from her lungs as the wood scraped her spine.

Her wrist was wrenched upward, pinned effortlessly in a clawed grip as she hissed painfully.

The beast growled. Hollow sockets bore into her, its maw stretching wider than human, sharp teeth glinting as something long and wet slithered out...

A tongue.

It lapped across her arm, dragging through the cut and savouring the blood that welled fresh from the wound.

Ilaria’s body shook, not just from terror but from the sheer unnatural revulsion that crawled up her skin. Every instinct screamed for her to scream. But no sound left her throat. It was like her body had betrayed her and was petrified in place.

Her mind fractured between panic and pain, her breath shallow, her eyes wide, and her heart thrashing like a trapped bird. If it were her sister, she would have known what to do. If it were the knights, they would have fought without hesitation. Even Levan or anyone else, they would have stood their ground.

But her?

She was just Ilaria. The sheltered princess. A trembling fool in the dark, frozen in place while the world burned around her. And yet, beneath that terror; beneath the screaming in her head that told her to run, to hide, and to disappear, something inside her suddenly snapped.

A strangled sound escaped her and she did not even think before she acted. She just reached. Not with her hands, but with that wild, trembling thing deep in her chest that had always stirred whenever she was desperate enough to pray.

The marks on her arm flared, not faintly this time but violently, searing up to her shoulder as a blinding light ripping through the darkness like lightning breaking open the night. It was not gentle. It was not graceful. It was raw, the kind of power that burned as it answered her call, bursting from her palm with a force that threw her backward and the beast away.

The air cracked.

The beast shrieked and stumbled back, writhing violently. Smoke rose from its flesh where her blood had touched it as if it just got burned, and the growl that followed it... Ilaria’s swore her soul fled with it.

Because it was not just monstrous, it was almost human, twisted into something hollow and broken like a thousand voices crying out at once.

Ilaria fell to her knees, gasping. The world spun. Her vision flickered between white and black and she could barely see the outlines of her hands trembling before her face. The light still poured faintly from her palm, flickering like the dying embers of a flame too quickly spent.

Her chest heaved. Every breath felt like glass scraping down her throat. Her magic was draining fast, pulling at the edges of her strength until all she could do was press her shaking hand against the ground and whisper brokenly, "S-stay away—"

But the beast did not fall. Instead it writhed, its body convulsing in violent, broken jerks as light seared through its shadowed flesh.

Then it screamed.

The sound tore through the night like metal grinding against bone. Ilaria gasped as the air itself seemed to shatter around her. The force hit her like a physical blow, driving her to the ground. Her hands flew to her ears, but it did nothing; vibrating through her bones until she thought her skull might split.

Around her, the knights staggered. Some dropped their blades, clutching their heads as the world seemed to tilt. The ground trembled beneath their boots, the tents shuddering from the pressure that rolled outward like a wave. Through the noise, Ilaria could barely hear her own breath.

She had heard that kind of cry before. Long ago when she was still a small girl exploring the wonders of the world, she had heard the White Dragon of Caelwyn summoning its kin with a roar that shook the skies as it stood beside her father.

And now... this thing was summoning death.

Somewhere in the distance, another shriek answered. Then another. And in an instant the forest came alive with monstrous screams.

W-what—

Just when Ilaria thought it was over, when her strength had bled dry and her body refused to move, something sliced through the air. A sound too swift to follow, like a blade cutting through the fabric of the night itself.

The beast jerked mid-scream. For a split second, its entire body froze, twisted in agony, and then it began to unravel as shadows peeled away from its form, curling and shredding into ash that burned silver as it scattered into the wind.

The weight pressing on her chest vanished. The world around her quietened. And where the monster had stood a breath ago, there was only dust and the faint hum of power still trembling through the ground.

The air was still vibrating with the echo of the beast’s final scream when Levan burst through the haze, eyes wild. His sword was drawn, his coat torn, the golden light in his irises still burning. He looked like a man ready to tear apart the world.

And then he saw her.

Mud-streaked and trembling, her arm bleeding, black veins crawling beneath her skin like poison while the remnants of magic still shimmered faintly around her, distorting the air.

Relief washed over her face. "H-husband—"

But he had stopped dead like he had seen horror twisted into reality itself. For one heavy second, his face went completely still. Then—

"What were you thinking?" The words came out sharper than a blade, cutting through the air between them. He reached her in two strides, his hand gripping her shoulder like a desperate madman as something flared in his eyes. "You should’ve stayed inside— I told you to stay inside!"

She flinched at the force of his voice, stammering, "I— I didn’t mean— the light went out— I just—"

"You just?" His tone cracked, anger and horror tangled so tightly they were indistinguishable. "You could have been killed, Aria! Look at you— you’re hurt— you—"

He stopped. His breath hitched. For a heartbeat he just stared at her arm, at the blood and the dark veins still faintly glowing, the tremor in her hands. His eyes widened, pupils constricting as the memories of his mother’s blood on white sheets, the same mark creeping up her skin, the same helplessness clawing at his chest, resurfaced.

He took a faltering step back.

His composure shattered. The carefully trained calm that had always defined him broke apart like glass. His voice rose again, harsher and hoarser this time, trembling with something that was not just anger. "You shouldn’t have been here. I told you to stay in the palace, but you insisted you had to come, didn’t you?"

Ilaria stilled. Despite her fear and tremors, all she could think about was his raw reaction. Because she had never seen him like this before.

"You’re not supposed to be on the field, you’re supposed to be back in the palace and be safe, you’re not a knight, Aria, you’re not trained for this, and—fuck it—you just became a liability! Do you even understand what you’ve done? You could’ve died out here and for what, for—for this? Do you think I could have protected you if— if that thing—"

His voice broke, shaking with the sting of memory and fear.

"You make this so much harder than it has to be, you know you’re useless out here, you nearly got yourself killed, do you have any idea how much worse it could’ve been because of you? Saints above, Aria, why do you always have to make me choose between protecting you and hating myself for letting you do something this reckless?"

The words hung in the night like smoke as silence followed, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on her chest. Ilaria swallowed hard, heart hammering in her throat, the sting of guilt slicing sharper than the wound on her arm.

"I... I’m sorry," she whispered, barely audible over her ragged breaths. "I d-didn’t mean..." Her words trailed off, and her hands clutched at her chest as if she could hold the pieces of herself together.

Levan’s shoulders stiffened at the sight, his jaw tight, but he did not move toward her. He could not. The fear, the raw memory of helplessness, the rage... it all left him frozen. So instead, he turned away, back rigid and tense, and addressed Harken without meeting her gaze.

"Wrap her wound," he ordered, voice clipped but carrying the weight of unspoken panic all the same. "And make sure she doesn’t use her magic again until she has the strength. If she collapses, I won’t be able to warrant her safety."

Ilaria flinched at the distance, at the cold formality of the command, at the way he would not even look at her. Her stomach sank, guilt twisting tighter in her gut. She wanted to crawl forward and explain, to say she was sorry again, but even the words felt heavy and useless in the space he had created between them.

The silence stretched unbearably, a wound as sharp as the one on her arm. She pressed her hands to her face, wishing she could erase every step that led to this moment, wishing she could vanish entirely, just for a while, until he calmed, until he could look at her again.