Dragging Zayne's body was like trying to move a mountain with bare hands.
Each step made Nana's muscles scream in protest, her legs threatening to give out beneath the combined weight of exhaustion and desperation. Her aether core was completely depleted—not just low, but empty, leaving her with nothing but her own rapidly failing strength.
"Come on," she gasped, her arms hooked under his shoulders as she pulled. "Come on, you stupidly heavy man. Work with me here."
Zayne didn't respond. His head lolled against her shoulder, his breathing shallow but steady. Still alive. Still with her.
That was all that mattered.
The broken building was only twenty feet away, but it might as well have been twenty miles. Nana's vision swam with each step, black spots dancing at the edges as her body protested this treatment. Her ribs—cracked from previous fights—ground together with every movement, sending sharp stabs of pain through her torso.
She ignored it. Ignored the pain, ignored the exhaustion, ignored everything except the need to get Zayne somewhere safe.
Somewhere she could work. Somewhere the smell of blood wouldn't attract every predator in a three-block radius.
Ten feet. Five feet. Three.
Finally—finally—she managed to drag him through the doorway into what had once been some kind of shop.
The interior was dim and relatively sheltered, with walls that mostly held and enough debris scattered around to provide cover if something came looking.
Nana collapsed beside Zayne, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. Every muscle in her body was shaking. Her hands were slick with blood—his blood—and when she looked down at herself, she realize she was covered in it.
Her clothes were soaked through, painted in shades of red that ranged from bright arterial to dark venous.
"Okay," she said to the empty room, her voice cracking. "Okay. You can do this. You've done this before."
But she hadn't. Not really. Not like this.
Mina had taught her basic field medicine, yes. How to clean wounds and tie makeshift bandages. But stitching up deep lacerations? On someone who was unconscious from blood loss? With hands that wouldn't stop shaking?
She'd never done that.
But she would now. Because the alternative was watching Zayne die, and that wasn't an option. Would never be an option.
She forced herself to move, to think past the panic clawing at her throat. Water first—she needed to clean her hands, clean the wounds. She grabbed the mostly-intact water bottle from their scattered supplies and poured it over her hands, washing away blood until she could see her own skin again.
Then she turned to Zayne.
His turtleneck was soaked through, clinging to his chest in a way that made it hard to see the extent of the damage. Nana's fingers shook as she reached for the fabric, gripping it carefully and pulling it up.
The blood was worse than she'd thought. His entire torso was painted red, making it almost impossible to see where the wounds actually were.
She used more water, pouring it directly onto his chest and watching it run pink as it washed away blood. Slowly, the injuries became visible—four parallel gashes running from his left shoulder down across his pectoral muscle, deep enough to see the darker tissue beneath but not quite deep enough to expose bone.
Deep enough to bleed like a fountain. Deep enough to kill if left untreated.
But survivable. If she could just—
Nana froze.
There, on Zayne's chest, just above his heart and slightly to the right of the fresh wounds, was something she'd never seen before.
Numbers.
Roman numerals, carved into his skin like some kind of brand or tattoo, but wrong. Too precise. Too deliberate. The scar tissue was raised and pale against his skin, creating harsh lines that stood out eventhe blood.
V.
Five.
"No," Nana breathed, her hands hovering over the mark. "No, no, no..."
But even as denial rose in her throat, understanding crashed over her like a wave.
Avalon marked its victims. Branded them with their death count, tracking each rebirth like some twisted experiment. Like gladiators in an arena, their kills and deaths recorded for whoever—whatever—watched from beyond.
And Zayne had died five times.
Five times he'd suffered through death in this hellscape. Five times his body had dissolved into white mist and reformed somewhere else in Avalon, stripped of memories and powers and everything that made him who he was.
Five times he'dup confused and terrified, forced to learn how to survive all over again.
Five times, and he was still only twenty-seven years old. Still looked exactly as he had in Linkon City, because he kept dying young.
Kept being reborn at the same age, trapped in a cycle that wouldn't let him grow older or move forward or escape.
Tears fell from Nana's eyes, hot and fast, splashing onto Zayne's blood-stained chest.
Her fingers traced the Roman numeral with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the violence of its creation.
"I wasn't there," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I wasn't there to protect you. Not the second time, or the third, or the fourth. You died alone, and I wasn't there."
The thought was unbearable. Zayne dying over and over in this hell, with no one to help him, no one to hold him, no one to promise that it would be okay.she'd been safe in Linkon City, living her normal life, while he suffered.
"I'm sorry," she choked out. "I'm so sorry. I should have found a way back sooner. Should have—"
A soft gasp cut through her spiral of grief.
Zayne's eyes fluttered open, hazel irises unfocused and glassy with pain. His face was deathly pale, his lips bloodless, but he was conscious. Aware enough to feel what she was doing.
"Nana?" His voice was barely a whisper, rough and strained.
"I'm here." She wiped at her tears furiously, trying to compose herself. "I'm here, I've got you. But I need to stitch these wounds, and it's going to hurt. It's going to hurt a lot."
"Okay."
The word was so trusting, so accepting, that it made her want to cry all over again.reached for her pack—or what was left of it—and pulled out her emergency sewing kit. It was designed for repairing clothes and gear, not human flesh, but it would have to do.
The needle was thin and sharp, the thread strong but rough. Not medical grade. Not sterile. But all she had.
Nana held the needle over the lighter's flame for a long minute, watching the metal glow red-hot before cooling. It wasn't proper sterilization, but it was better than nothing.
Then she threaded it with shaking hands and turned to Zayne.
"Ready?" she asked, even though she knew he wasn't. Nobody could be ready for this.
He nodded slightly, his jaw clenched in anticipation.
Nana took a deep breath, steadied her hands as much as possible, and pressed the needle to his skin.
The first puncture made Zayne gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that was almost a cry. His whole body went rigid, muscles tensing beneath her hands.
"I know," Nana said softly, her own voice shaking. "I know it hurts. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She pulled the thread through, creating the first stitch. Then the second. Each one made Zayne flinch, his breathing coming faster and more ragged.
By the fourth stitch, tears were streaming down his face, mixing with the sweat on his temples. But he didn't cry out. Didn't beg her to stop. Just bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood and let her work.
Nana had to pause after the sixth stitch, her own hands shaking too badly to continue. She couldn't stand seeing him like this—in pain, suffering because of her clumsy attempts at field medicine. Everyevery involuntary flinch, felt like a knife to her own chest.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again, her tears falling freely now. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Zayne's hand found hers where it rested on his chest. His grip was weak but deliberate, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in what might have been meant as comfort.
"Keep... going," he managed through gritted teeth. "Have to... finish."
Nana looked up and met his eyes. They were blurry with tears and pain, but there was something else there too. Something that looked almost like... pride?
He was smiling. It was a small, strained thing—more of a grimace than an actual smile—but it was there. Real and present and impossibly gentle.
"You always protecting me," he said, each word an effort. "Just like... in my dreams. My... hunter."
Fresh tears spilled down Nana's cheeks, but she forced herself to nod. To pick up the needle again. To continue the work that would save his life.
The remaining stitches took forever. Each one was agony for both of them—him from the physical pain, her from having to inflict it. But finally, finally, the last thread was tied off, the wounds closed in rough but functional lines.
The bleeding had stopped. The gashes were sealed, held together by Nana's inexpert but determined stitching.
Zayne would survive.
His breathing evened out almost immediately, the worst of the crisis past. His eyes drifted closed again, but this time it was genuine exhaustion rather than blood loss dragging him under.
Nana sat back on her heels, her hands still shaking, and just looked at him.
At the man she loved across lifetimes and rebirths.
At the Roman numeral V carved into his chest, marking five deaths she hadn't been there to prevent.
At the fresh wounds she'd just closed, praying they would heal properly without infection or complications.
Her hand moved almost unconsciously to rest on his chest, just below the wounds, right over his heart. She could feel it beating beneath her palm—steady and strong despite everything. Proof that he was alive, that they'd both survived this nightmare of a day.
"Five times," she whispered to his sleeping form. "You died five times, and you still kept fighting. Still kept trying to survive."
Her fingers traced the Roman numeral again, memorizing its shape. This was Avalon's cruelty laid bare—marking its victims, tracking their suffering like data points in some cosmic experiment.
"But not again," Nana said, and her voice was hard as stone. "I'm here now. I'm going to protect you. No more deaths. No more rebirths. We're both getting out of here alive."
Zayne's hand was still on her lap, his fingers loosely curled around hers. Even in sleep, he sought that connection, that physical proof that she was there.
Nana interlaced their fingers properly, holding on tight.
Outside, the sounds of Avalon continued—distant shrieks, the crash of something large moving through ruins, the ever-present whisper of wind through broken buildings.
But in here, in this small shelter, there was just the two of them. Breathing. Surviving. Together.
Nana let herself have this moment. Let herself feel the relief of knowing Zayne would live, the grief of understanding how much he'd suffered, the determination to make sure it never happened again.
Then she settled in beside him, her back against the wall, her hand never leaving his chest where she could feel his heartbeat.
She would keep watch. Would stay alert for any threats. Would protect him while he recovered.
Because that's what hunters did. They protected the people they loved.
Even—especially—when those people had died five times and still managed to smile at them through the pain.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued.