Rowan didn’t remember collapsing.

  One moment he was running, the bamboo road blurring beneath his feet, Lyra’s hand gripping his like a lifeline.

  The next, the world tilted sideways, and the ground rushed up to meet him.

  Lyra caught him before he hit the earth.

  “Rowan— Rowan, stay with me—”

  His eyes fluttered, unfocused. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and frighteningly steady. The wound across his shoulder wasn’t deep enough to kill him quickly… but he was losing too much, too fast.

  Lyra dragged him off the path, into the shelter of a thicket where the bamboo grew thick and tangled. She lowered him gently, her hands shaking.

  Rowan winced. “You… shouldn’t stay. They’ll come back.”

  “I don’t care,” Lyra whispered fiercely. “I’m not leaving you.”

  His breath hitched — from pain, not emotion, but it still made her chest tighten.

  Lyra tore open his shirt. The cut was worse than she’d realized — jagged, angry, still bleeding. Elias hadn’t meant to wound him.

  He’d meant to kill him.

  Lyra pressed her hands to the wound. “Hold still.”

  Rowan gave a weak, humorless laugh. “Not… going anywhere.”

  “Good,” she snapped, though her voice trembled.

  The moon tugged at her blood, whispering to her, urging her to let go. Rowan’s scent — blood, sweat, steel — made the pull stronger. Her claws pricked at her fingertips.

  Not now.

  Not now.

  Not now.

  She forced the change back, teeth clenched.

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  Rowan watched her through half?lidded eyes. “Lyra… you’re shaking.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not.”

  She glared at him. “You’re bleeding out. Let me worry about you.”

  His lips twitched — almost a smile. “You always do.”

  Lyra froze.

  Rowan didn’t seem to realize what he’d said. His head lolled back, breath shallow. Panic surged through her.

  “Rowan— hey— stay awake.”

  He blinked slowly. “Trying.”

  Lyra tore a strip of cloth from her cloak and pressed it to his wound. Rowan hissed in pain, his hand gripping her wrist.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be.”

  His grip loosened. His eyes drifted shut.

  Lyra slapped his cheek lightly. “No. No, no, no— Rowan, open your eyes.”

  He did — barely.

  “Lyra… if I don’t make it—”

  “Stop.”

  “Listen.”

  “No.”

  He swallowed, breath trembling. “I need you to run. If they find you—”

  “I said no.”

  Her voice cracked. She leaned closer, forehead almost touching his.

  “I’m not leaving you,” she whispered. “Not now. Not ever.”

  Rowan’s eyes softened — a look she had never seen from him, not even in the shrine.

  “Lyra…”

  His voice broke.

  And something inside her broke with it.

  She pressed her hands harder against the wound, ignoring the sting of her claws threatening to break through her skin.

  “Stay with me,” she begged. “Please.”

  Rowan’s breathing slowed.

  Too slow.

  Lyra’s heart pounded. She looked around wildly — bamboo, shadows, moonlight. Nothing she could use. Nothing that could save him.

  Except—

  Her blood.

  Moon?touched. Cursed. Powerful.

  Dangerous.

  Her mother had warned her:

  “Our blood heals, but it binds. Once given, it cannot be taken back.”

  Lyra stared at Rowan — pale, fading, slipping away.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  She bit into her wrist, hard enough to draw blood, and pressed it to his lips.

  Rowan jerked weakly. “Lyra— don’t—”

  “Drink.”

  “It’s… dangerous…”

  “So is dying.”

  Her voice shook. “Please. Take it.”

  Rowan hesitated — for a heartbeat, for a breath — then his lips parted.

  He drank.

  Lyra gasped as the moon surged through her veins, pulled toward him like a tide. Her vision blurred. Her heartbeat synced with his. The world narrowed to the warmth of his mouth against her skin, the desperate pull of his breath, the ancient magic threading between them.

  When he finally pulled away, he collapsed against her shoulder, trembling.

  Lyra held him, her own body shaking from the strain.

  Rowan’s breathing steadied — slowly, painfully, but unmistakably.

  He was alive.

  Barely.

  Lyra pressed her forehead to his, tears slipping down her cheeks.

  “You’re not allowed to die,” she whispered. “Not for me. Not ever.”

  Rowan’s fingers curled weakly into her cloak.

  “Wasn’t… planning to.”

  Lyra let out a broken laugh — half relief, half exhaustion.

  The bamboo swayed overhead, whispering secrets to the night.

  And in Lyra’s arms, Rowan finally slept — not the sleep of the dying, but the fragile, trembling sleep of someone who had been pulled back from the edge.

  By her.

  By the curse.

  By something neither of them could name yet.