Hours passed. The sun crossed the courtyard in a slow gold arc that no one on the ground could appreciate, and the household arrived in stages. Emily led the maids out with basins and linens, and eight women spread among the suffering with the quiet efficiency of people who could not fix the problem yet refused to watch it idle. Clarisse knelt beside Vex and pressed a damp cloth to the Hexwitch's forehead. Naomi sank beside Aurora with both hands around her daughter's, steady and present, and Natalie did the same for Blossom, one hand between the blonde ears that lay flat and trembling against the girl's skull, murmuring things too soft for anyone else to catch.
Emily crossed toward Quinlan last, her steps slowing as she neared him. He was floating with the crimson script alive at his throat and his face a mess of dried blood from the duel, and the power rolling off him was thick enough to taste. She stopped two meters away with the basin clutched tight, afraid of interrupting something she did not understand but unable to stand there watching the blood dry on her lord's face any longer. Then, with Quinlan's eyes remaining closed, a gust of wind curled from behind her, gentle and careful, and pressed against the small of her back until her feet came unstuck. Emily went still. For a second the posure she wore like a uniform slipped entirely, her eyes going wide. Then the surprise softened and the smile returned, and the maid began cleaning the blood from his wounds with steady hands.
Night fell over the estate the way it always did, gradually and then all at once, the gold deepening through amber into blue until the only light left was the faint crimson pulse at Quinlan's throat. The women, despite their unladylike words and animalistic sounds that left their delicate lips, all refused to tap out, struggling no matter what. Quinlan felt the end before Nyxara named it. The threads pulled taut, the final surge of will left him in a long exhale, and the crimson script dimmed one character at a time until the last symbol went dark and his skin was bare. Nyxara murmured. The fire in his ribcage left his body in a rush of dark crimson light that pulsed outward from his chest, split into eighteen threads along the bonds, and drove into every woman on the ground before sinking beneath their skin.
His body descended until his boots settled on the moss.
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