"Raith," I say, my voice surprisingly steady. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I swear this oath to you now. I swear I'll do everything I can to help you. To protect you like you've protected me." The words come from somewhere deep inside me, pulled forth by instinct and desperation. "Your life is my life. Your fight is my fight."

For a moment, nothing happens. Then I feel it—a faint vibration between us, like a thread being pulled taut.

The thread grows stronger, more defined, like a slender cord linking us together. It's nowhere near as solid as the tether between Typhon and me—more like a single thread compared to a woven rope—but it's there, pulsing with potential.

I place my hands on either side of his neck where the siphon touched him, calling forth my healing power. It's harder than healing myself, like trying to pour water uphill, but I push through the resistance.

The black veins resist, clinging to Raith's flesh like parasites. I can feel them fighting me, trying to burrow deeper. But something has changed with our connection. I can sense his life force now, feel how it's intertwined with Pyrin's, see how the void magic is eating away at them both.

I don't just push at the corruption. I reach through our new thread-thin connection, anchoring myself to the core of who Raith is, and then I pull. I pull it from him the same way I draw in his fire when we touch.

The void magic is reluctant at first, clinging stubbornly. Then it begins to flow, sluggishly at first, then in an ever-increasing stream. It pours from Raith into my hands—a thick, oily substance that burns wherever it touches.

I gasp at the pain, but I don't let go. I can't.

"Don't let it linger inside you," Typhon warns. "Direct it away. Quickly."

I do as he says, channeling the corruption away from both of us and into the stone floor where it hisses and evaporates like dark sludge. But there's so much of it, far more than I expected, and each passing moment drains more of my strength.

The thread between us quivers but holds, growing slightly stronger as more of the corruption flows out of him. I can feel Raith now, sense his essence—all fire and determination and hidden depths.

"Stay with me," I whisper, as much to him as to myself.

Finally, the last of the corruption leaves him. The veins fade from his skin, and color returns to his face. His breathing deepens, steadies.

To my shock, the scars that have always twisted half of his face grow bright white and begin to dissolve, not completely gone, but far more subtle than the twisted valley of flesh they were before.

"Hmm," Typhon rumbles. "You took the time to make cosmetic improvements. Was this for your benefit or his?"