POV: Ravenna
I run.
I don't remember deciding to run. One moment I'm on the ramparts watching Veyron's dragon fall, and the next I'm sprinting through the palace corridors, taking stairs three at a time, bursting into the courtyard where his body lies broken on the stone.
No. No, no, no—
I drop to my knees beside him. He's already shifted back to human form—the body does that sometimes when death is instant. His eyes are open but empty. His chest doesn't move. There's blood. So much blood.
"Veyron." My hands shake as I press them to his chest. "Veyron, come on, stay with me—"
I reach for my gift. The healing flames that have saved dozens, hundreds. I pour them into him, feeling for the spark of life, the thread I can pull him back with.
There's nothing.
Just cold. Just gone.
"NO." I press harder, my flames burning brighter. "You don't get to die. You don't get to—COME back—"
But he doesn't. He's too far gone. There's no life to heal, no wound to mend. Just absence where a soul used to be.
I scream.
The sound rips out of me—rage and grief and helplessness all tangled together. I scream until my throat is raw, until my flames gutter out, until someone grabs my shoulders and pulls me back.
"Princess." Hadrian's voice, rough and urgent. "Princess, you can't—there are others who need you. Now."
I blink at him. Can't process what he's saying. Veyron is dead. The man who trained Theron, who respected me, who stood like a mountain through every trial—
"PRINCESS." Hadrian shakes me once, hard. "Look."
He turns me toward the courtyard entrance. Soldiers are being carried in on stretchers. Dozens of them. Fire kingdom warriors with burns and broken bones. Water kingdom fighters with gashes and puncture wounds. The battle is still raging beyond the walls and the casualties are piling up.
They're bringing them to me.
Because I can heal them.
Because Veyron is gone but these people aren't. Not yet.
Oh gods.
I force myself to stand. My legs shake but I lock my knees. I can fall apart later. Right now—
"Bring them here," I say. My voice sounds foreign. Hollow. "All of them. I can—I'll heal them."
The first soldier they bring is a Fire kingdom warrior with his left arm nearly severed. He's unconscious, blood pooling beneath him. I press my hands to the wound and let my gift flow. The healing flames are sluggish at first—I'm exhausted, grief-stricken, barely holding together—but then they catch. The flesh begins to knit. Bone reconnects. Skin seals.
He gasps awake, eyes wide with shock.
"You're all right," I tell him. "Get to safety. NEXT."
They bring me a Water kingdom soldier with a crushed ribcage. Then a Fire kingdom captain with burns covering half her body. Then another. And another. I lose count. I lose track of kingdoms and names and faces. There's just wounds and blood and the desperate need to HEAL, to save them, to make this MATTER.
Lyris appears beside me. Her hands glow with water's healing—not as strong as mine but enough to handle the minor wounds, to stabilize the critical ones until I can get to them.
"I've got this one," she says, taking over a soldier with a leg wound. "You focus on the dying."
I nod. Move to the next stretcher. A man with a punctured lung. I seal it. NEXT. A woman with her skull cracked. I mend it. NEXT. NEXT. NEXT.
Morgana is there too, creating shields around our makeshift healing area. An earth dragon dive-bombs the courtyard and she throws up a barrier that deflects the attack. Debris rains down but we're protected.
"Keep working," she shouts. "I've got you."
The battle rages for HOURS. I heal until my hands are covered in other people's blood. Until my gift is a constant burn under my skin. Until every breath feels like swallowing fire and my vision starts to blur at the edges.
But I keep going.
Because what else can I do? Let them die? Let Veyron's sacrifice mean nothing?
Eventually—finally—the sounds of battle begin to fade. The earth dragons retreat. Cindravale's forces and Thalassa's water warriors drive them back through sheer combined force. Volcris's attack fails. His losses too high to sustain.
Victory.
If you can call it that.
"Princess." Someone touches my shoulder. I flinch away, still reaching for the next patient, but there isn't one. The courtyard has gone quiet. The wounded are bandaged or healed or—
Or covered with sheets.
"Princess, you need to stop." Lyris's voice. Gentle but firm. "You're going to kill yourself."
"I'm fine—"
"You're NOT fine. Look at yourself."
I look down. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold them steady. My dress is soaked with blood—none of it mine. My gift is still trying to activate, flames flickering weakly around my fingers like dying embers.
I've given everything. There's nothing left.
The world tilts sideways.
I don't feel myself fall.
***
I wake to dim light and a warm hand holding mine.
"Theron?" My voice is barely a whisper. My throat feels like I swallowed broken glass.
"I'm here." His face swims into focus above me. He's covered in soot and blood, a fresh cut across his cheek, but his eyes are steady. Relieved. "You've been unconscious for six hours."
"Veyron—"
"I know." His jaw tightens. "I know."
I close my eyes. The grief crashes over me again—not as sharp as before but deeper. Heavier. Veyron is gone. That gruff, impossible, legendary warrior who taught Theron everything, who looked at me during the trials and saw something worth respecting—
"How many?" I ask. Because I need to know. Need to understand the cost.
"Dozens dead. Veyron, twenty-three warriors, eight civilians caught in the crossfire." He pauses. "Hundreds wounded."
Hundreds wounded. That I healed.
"You saved over a hundred lives during the battle," Theron says quietly. "Lyris confirmed it. Soldiers who would have died—who should have died—are alive because of you."
A hundred lives.
For Veyron's one.
"Was it worth it?" I whisper. "His death. For—for this?"
Theron is silent for a long moment. Then: "Veyron would say yes."
"How do you know?"
"Because that's what warriors do, Ravenna." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "We protect the people who matter. Even if it costs us everything." His voice roughens. "He died protecting his king. Protecting his kingdom. Protecting YOU. He would call that a good death."
"I call it a waste."
"I know." He lifts my hand and presses his lips to my bloody knuckles. "But he wouldn't."
I want to argue. Want to scream that it's NOT fair, that we needed him, that I needed more TIME—
But what's the point? Veyron is gone. The battle is over. All I can do is honor his sacrifice by making sure it MEANT something.
By healing the people he died protecting.
"Help me up," I say.
"Ravenna, you need to rest—"
"I need to see them." I struggle to sit. "The soldiers I healed. I need—I need to know they're all right."
He sighs but doesn't argue. Just slides an arm around me and helps me stand. My legs are weak but they hold.
We walk through the healing wing together. Past beds filled with recovering soldiers—Fire kingdom and Water kingdom side by side. They see me and try to sit up, try to salute or bow or thank me.
I wave them down. "Rest. Recover. That's an order."
One soldier—a young Fire kingdom warrior with his arm in a sling—catches my eye. "You saved my life, Princess."
"You fought for my kingdom," I tell him. "We're even."
But we're not. We'll never be even. Because Veyron is dead and I couldn't save him.
I couldn't save the one who mattered most.
Theron leads me back to our chambers. I collapse into bed fully clothed, too exhausted to change, too numb to care.
He lies beside me and pulls me against his chest.
"You did everything you could," he murmurs into my hair. "Everything."
I know that. I do.
But it doesn't make Veyron any less dead.
It doesn't make this hurt any less.