“Give me one reason, Korinthal Voss,” Savia rasped, her voice a brittle sound, venomous and cold, “one reason not to carve out your heart.”
The deep-glass splinter pressed hard, its sharp edge biting against the alloy of his chest plate. Korinthal’s gaze didn’t waver from her clouded eyes, the purple capillaries beneath her visor a pulsing web. He held the lead-sleeved vial of the Tear in his trembling palms, the clear resin within catching the chamber’s dim glow. He could fight her. He could wrestle the shard away, force the antidote into her mouth. That was the logical, expedient move. The move he would have made a cycle ago.
But the logic had long since dissolved, washed away by the tide of his own monumental folly.
He watched her, truly watched her, for the first time without the veil of his vengeance. He saw the agony in the twist of her mouth, the exhaustion in the slump of her posture, the defeat etched into the very core of her being. He had done this. Every poisoned inhalation she drew, every agonizing beat of her pulse, was a direct consequence of his meticulously crafted hatred.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Korinthal’s free hand reached down, unhooking the mag-locks on his sidearm holster, then his vibro-knife. He let both weapons clatter to the muck-soaked floor, the metallic sounds stark in the vault’s silence. Savia’s grip on the deep-glass point tightened, her knuckles blanching white. A flicker of confusion, then suspicion, crossed her face.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice a strained rasp.
He met her gaze, his own eyes burning with a raw, stripping honesty that flayed away every layer of his usual composure. He shifted, just enough, leaning into the blade. The crystalline point scraped against the metal, a terrible grating sound, before finding the seam where the breastplate met the gorget. He pulled it deeper, forcing the tip into the gap, against the soft plasteel of his undersuit. It bit into his skin. A sharp, searing pain bloomed across his sternum.
Savia caught her air, a choked sound.
“I’m giving you your reason,” Korinthal managed, the pain blossoming, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. “My vengeance was a lie, Savia. A hollow, rotting illusion I clung to because I was too blind, too selfish, too much of a coward to admit I was wrong.” His voice cracked, tears, hot and sudden, finally spilling over his eyelids, blurring her already distorted features. “I destroyed you. Not the Rasks, not your legacy, but *you*. The only person who ever saw past the ruin of my name.”
The deep-glass shard pierced further. A warmth spread across his chest as blood welled, seeping into the plasteel. He ignored it, pressing on. “I swore I would watch your world burn, and I did. But I didn’t know…” He gasped, a guttural sound. “I didn’t know my own world was tethered to yours. I didn’t know that when yours crumbled, mine would follow. I can’t exist without you. I’m an empty husk, Savia. A ghost in the current.”
His words, stripped bare of all artifice, resonated through the hollow. The sheer vulnerability, the agony tearing through him, was a stark contrast to the ruthlessly composed man she had known. Her grip on the glass wavered. The rigid set of her jaw softened, ever so slightly. The suspicion in her eyes faded, replaced by a terrible, dawning comprehension, and then, a mirroring pain. Her own visor was streaked with what he could now see were tears, tracing paths through the grime and radiation burns.
“You lie,” she said, but the conviction had fled her voice, replaced by a tremor.
“Look at me,” Korinthal pleaded, pushing the shard further still. He felt the sickening give of flesh, the sharp sting of the mineral seeking deeper. “Do you see a lie? I would give every scrap of deep-glass in Morvayn, every breath I have left, to undo what I’ve done. My life, my very existence, means nothing if you aren’t in it.” He closed the distance between them, numb to the piercing pain, unmindful of the vial, letting it fall from his nerveless grip to roll in the mud. He gripped her armored shoulders, his hands hot on the cold metal. He leaned in, his voice a ragged gasp. “Kill me, Savia. Do it. Take your vengeance. But let me save you first.”
Her eyes, clouded and wet, stared into his. He saw the struggle, the war raging behind them – the hate, the betrayal, the memory of his cold betrayal. But beneath it, a deeper current pulsed: the echo of their shared past, the unexpected bond forged in the crucible of the Rifts. The weapon in her hand trembled violently. Her knuckles, still white, finally began to loosen.
Then, with a heartbroken sob that tore through the grotto, Savia Rask dropped the deep-glass point. It clattered against his breastplate, then slid down, forgotten, into the muck. She surged forward, abandoning all pretense of resistance. Her arms locked around his neck, pulling him into a hard, crushing embrace. Her helmet clanked against his, the visor pressing against his cheek. He felt the wetness of her tears, hot against his skin, mixing with his own. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the faint, metallic scent of her armor, the dying scent of her.
Their kiss was fierce, untamed, a raw plea for forgiveness and a promise of salvation. It was the raw, unbridled confession of two souls who had stumbled through a labyrinth of hatred only to find an unbearable longing at its heart. It tasted of salt and grief and the fragile, fading hope for a future that might never be.
As their lips parted, a guttural rasp tore from Savia’s lungs. Her body seized, arcing violently in his arms. The purple capillaries beneath her visor flared, burning brighter, more intensely than before, casting an eerie glow on their faces. A low, keening moan escaped her. Her muscles spasmed, her nails digging into the plasteel of his suit. He felt the terrifying, convulsive shudders that wracked her frame. The Void-poison had reached its zenith. There were minutes, perhaps seconds, before her body’s cellular structure would completely unravel.
Korinthal ripped himself away, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The lead-sleeved vial lay discarded in the mud. He scrabbled at the ground, retrieving it, his hands clumsy with urgency. He tore at the seal, his vision blurring, his mind screaming. He looked up, scanning the grotto, locating the gleaming, viscous pool at the base of the fossilized organ. The ancient Heart—a churning, boiling cauldron of raw, unrefined deep-glass essence, the very source of the cure.
He didn’t hesitate. He thrust the vial into Savia’s hand, wrapping her digits around it. “Hold this!” he yelled, his voice raw with panic. He sprinted towards the pool, his feet splashing in the irradiated muck. The heat emanating from the magical acid was immense, stinging his skin even at a distance. He could hear Savia’s ragged, wheezing gasps behind him, growing weaker, more infrequent.
He reached the edge, the air thick with mineral steam. The liquid itself flared with an unbearable violet light, tiny motes of raw power swirling within its depths. There, deep within the churning acid, nestled in a small crystalline alcove, was another, much larger tear-shaped gem. The pristine Tear. The true cure.
He ripped off his gauntlets, tossing them aside, his bare hands suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable. The skin on his arms prickled, then burned, from the proximity to the unshielded magic. He could feel his nerve endings screaming in protest even before he touched the surface. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Korinthal plunged his unprotected hands into the boiling, magical acid.
A scream ripped from his vocal cords, swallowed by the roar of the Heart. White-hot agony seared up his arms, consuming him. It felt like a thousand needles, each one glowing with abyssal fire, piercing his flesh, dissolving bone, searing sinew. He could smell burning flesh, the sickening tang of ozone and cooked meat. His arms, submerged up to the elbows, began to blister immediately, the skin charring, peeling away. His vision swam. He fought the urge to recoil, fought the instinct to pull back, focusing solely on the glowing gem at the bottom. His charred hands, screaming with ruined nerves, closed around its smooth, cool surface. He yanked it free.
With a final, tortured cry, Korinthal pulled his arms from the churning acid, clutching the glowing, fist-sized core. His hands were mangled, burned beyond recognition, the flesh weeping and smoking. He staggered back, pressing through the searing pain and mounting nausea. Savia was convulsing again, a faint rattle in her windpipe. Her eyes were rolling back, her breathing shallow, erratic.
He stumbled back to her, dropping to his knees, his scarred hands fumbling to open her visor. He cracked the lead-sleeved vial she held, pouring the glowing, potent liquid into her mouth. Her jaw was locked, her body rigid. He pinched her nose, tilting her head back, forcing the viscous, luminous fluid down her gullet. He watched, horrified, as the last vestiges of strength left her. Her body went limp. The rattle in her throat ceased. Her eyes stared blankly upward, unseeing. Her breathing stopped.
“Savia!” he screamed, his voice raw, heartbroken. He slapped her cheek, then again, desperately. There was no response. Her chest was still.
Then, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her body. The purple glow beneath her skin began to recede, fading like dying embers. A soft gasp, then a ragged, weak breath. She stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened, her gaze slowly, hesitantly, finding his.
As her eyes met his, a deafening crack rent the air above them. A spiderweb of fractures raced across the rock ceiling, the ancient fossilized bones groaning under the sudden, immense pressure. The integrity of the Maw had been breached. Above them, through the widening fissures, the crushing abyssal ocean began to pour in, a torrent of black, cold water cascading down into the ruins, obliterating the last vestiges of light.