Misery’s declaration hung in the air like a thunderclap. Isla shook her head, her voice trembling as she stepped forward. “You don’t understand what you’re suggesting,” she said, her gaze locked on Misery. “This isn’t just about saving his life. You’ll be taking his soul.”
Misery’s fists clenched. “Do you think I don’t know that? I’ve weighed every option! If we had another way, I’d take it. But we’re out of time, Isla.”
Draven’s voice cut through the room, sharp and furious. “You don’t get to make this choice. He’s our brother, not yours to experiment on.” His claws scraped against the stone wall as his anger threatened to boil over. “This isn’t about saving him—it’s about you trying to drag him into your world.”
“I’m trying to save him!” Misery shot back, her crimson eyes flashing. “If you’d stop being so damn stubborn, you’d see that.”
Seraphine interjected, her tone icy but measured. “It could work. The process is dangerous, but if done correctly, he could survive—stronger than ever.””
They tried everything. Isla’s healing magic, Seraphine’s spells, even herbal remedies Draven had carried with him. Nothing worked. Eryon’s condition deteriorated with each passing hour, his breaths growing shallow, his skin clammy and pale.
Misery sat beside him, her hands trembling as she brushed his hair back. “I won’t let you go,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Not like this.”
Isla knelt beside her brother, tears glistening in her eyes. “Eryon wouldn’t want this, Misery. He’s a wolf, not a vampire.”
Misery turned to her, her expression resolute. “He wouldn’t want to die either.”
Draven growled low in his throat, his claws extending. “This is madness.”
“It’s survival,” Misery replied sharply, her tone unwavering. “If you’re too blind to see that, then stay out of my way.”
As the group’s arguments swirled around her, Misery looked down at Eryon’s face, her voice soft. “I’ll fight for you, Eryon. Even if it means fighting them.”
***
Eryon’s eyelids fluttered open, his amber eyes dull but filled with a flicker of defiance. He struggled to sit up, his body trembling with the effort. “Stop,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “You don’t get to decide for me.”
The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him. Misery’s hand darted to his shoulder, steadying him. “Eryon, you need to save your strength—”
“I’m not letting you,” he interrupted, his gaze locked on hers. “Not like this.”
Draven stepped forward, his voice stern. “Eryon, you’re barely holding on. Let us help you.”
Eryon’s lips curved into a faint, bitter smile. “Help me? By turning me into a monster? By deciding what’s best for me while I’m too weak to fight you?”
“You’re not thinking clearly,” Isla pleaded, her voice breaking. “We’re trying to save you.”
“And I’ll save myself,” Eryon snapped, his tone stronger than his frail body betrayed. His hand reached for Isla. “Mom…”
She rushed to his side, gripping his hand tightly. “I’m here.”
Eryon’s gaze softened as he met her eyes. “Don’t let them do this to me. You’re the only one who understands.”
Isla’s heart clenched as she looked around the room, the weight of her son’s plea settling heavily on her. “You have to fight, Eryon,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Please. We need you.”
Seraphine’s cold voice sliced through the tension. “He doesn’t have time for sentimentality. His strength is fading, and every second you waste is another nail in his coffin.”
Eryon’s grip on Isla’s hand tightened, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t let them… take me.”
The room erupted into chaos once more, voices clashing as the group’s loyalties were tested. Misery knelt closer, her voice urgent. “Eryon, this isn’t about us. It’s about stopping the King. You and Lyra—together, you’re the only chance we have.”
Isla’s silver eyes filled with tears as she whispered, “Fight, Eryon. Please. Don’t leave me.”
Eryon’s gaze flickered between his mother, Misery, and the others, his body trembling as he struggled to stay conscious. “If you… if you do this,” he said weakly, his voice trailing off, “I’ll never forgive you.”