The Matchmaker - The Arrax Saga Book 1 Chapter 223

Lupus gasped, just once. His eyes widened, not in fear, but in disbelief. As if he hadn’t thought she would do it. As if he still believed he mattered.

He didn’t.

He crumpled to the floor, blood blooming across his chest like a final, irreversible truth.

Silence fell.

Saphira stood over him, her blade steady, her face cold. “I did warn you I would kill you if I ever saw you again.”

No one moved. Even the shadows seemed to hold still.

Nikolas stood beside her, watching her with quiet understanding. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Then Saphira turned back to Sam.

He was staring at her; horror and disbelief etched deep into his face. His lips parted, but no words came.

“You’ll live, only because you are Jasper’s brother,” she said, her voice like frost. “But, you’ll answer for what you did. Every choice. Every life you helped end.”

Sam didn’t argue.

He just lowered his head.

The last echoes of battle had faded, leaving only the crackle of broken stone and the soft rustle of breath. Smoke hung in the air like memory, and the shadows clung to the walls as if reluctant to let go.

Saphira walked slowly through the wreckage, her limbs aching, her mind spent. Every step felt heavier than the last. But her heart pulled her forward, not toward victory, not toward rest.

Toward her.

Anastasia.

She found her where she had fallen, still, silent, her body cradled in the curve of the broken floor like the earth itself was trying to hold her. Asher was still there, kneeling beside her, his head bowed. His hands trembled where they rested on hers, fingers curled as if he could still protect her. Zafira stood behind him, one hand on his shoulder, her face streaked with soot and tears.

Saphira knelt beside them, her knees hitting the stone with a soft thud. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Anastasia’s brow. Her skin was cold now. But her expression was peaceful. Fierce, even in death. Like she’d left the world exactly how she meant to, defiant, protective, unyielding.

“She saved them,” Saphira whispered, her voice barely audible.

Asher nodded, his voice raw and broken. “She always put others before herself.”

They sat in silence, the kind that didn’t ask for words. Just breath. Just presence. Just the ache of love that had nowhere left to go.

Nikolas approached quietly, his steps careful, his presence a steady warmth at her back. He crouched beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. She leaned into it without thinking.

“We’ll take the injured home,” he said softly. “And we’ll bring Anastasia with us. She deserves to be buried among her own, at home.”

Saphira nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

Nikolas glanced around the ruined chamber, then back at her. “We’ll return,” he said. “When we’re ready. The Matchmaker can be rebuilt. But not today. For now, we leave some of the warriors here, to manage those still inside. Keep the peace. Hold the line.”

Saphira looked up at him, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. “And then?”

He met her gaze, steady and sure. “Then we come back. Together. And we make it better. When you’re ready.”

She exhaled slowly, then turned back to Anastasia. She leaned down and pressed her forehead to hers, just for a moment. A silent goodbye. A promise.

Then she rose.

One by one, the pack gathered. The wounded were lifted. The fallen were carried. No one rushed. No one spoke. The weight of what had happened settled into every step, every breath, every glance.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to. They were going home.

The journey home was quiet.

Not solemn. Not reverent.

Just quiet.

Saphira travelled near the front, Nikolas beside her, their shoulders brushing as they moved through the forest paths. His presence was calming, but the silence between them felt heavier than the night air. The wind tugged strands of hair loose from her plait, catching against her cheeks, but she barely noticed. Her body ached and her thoughts, what few remained, were weighted with loss.

She didn’t think about the spell she had unleashed.

She didn’t think about the witch who had helped Raven with helping her shape it.

She didn’t think about Lupus, or Sam, or the broken Matchmaker left behind.

She thought about Anastasia.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her, fierce and still, lying in the curve of the stone floor as if she belonged to the earth itself. The memory pressed against her chest until it was too tight to breathe. But she kept moving. One step. Then another.

The pack moved with her.

Some limped, leaning on comrades. Some were carried, their wounds bound hastily with the bandages from the healers. Others walked in silence, heads bowed, eyes distant. The wounded were wrapped in cloaks and blankets, supported by friends. No one spoke unless they had to.

When they reached the edge of the Arrax stronghold, the gates opened without a word.

The healers were already waiting.

They poured into the courtyard, robes fluttering, hands glowing with soft magic. Their voices were hushed but urgent as they guided the injured to the infirmary, checking pulses, whispering reassurances. The courtyard filled with the scent of herbs and the faint hum of spells. Saphira stood still, watching them work, her vision blurred, her body numb, her hands clenched at her sides as if holding herself together by force.

Nikolas touched her arm, his hand warm against the cold. “Let them take care of it,” he said softly. “You don’t have to carry everything right now.”

She nodded, but her throat was too tight for words.

Asher carried Anastasia’s body himself, wrapped in a deep blue shroud. His steps were slow, deliberate, his jaw clenched against the grief that threatened to break him. Zafira walked beside him, her hand never leaving his back, her face streaked with tears. The others followed in silence, forming a quiet procession through the courtyard.

The funeral preparations began almost immediately.

The witches lit the ceremonial fires, their flames flickering against the dawn. The seamstresses began weaving the burial cloth, fingers trembling as they worked. The pack moved with care, each task a tribute, each gesture a thread in the tapestry of mourning.

Saphira stood at the edge of it all, watching. Her nails dug into her palms until they hurt, but she didn’t release them. She felt Nikolas beside her, his silence a comfort she leaned into without words.

But inside, she was still kneeling on that broken floor.

Still holding Anastasia’s hand.

Still saying goodbye.