Childermass staggers into Lambert, and it's a miniscule difference that black ice slams into the gap between bones instead of through Lambert's neck. The witcher whirls, in time to see the shard protruding from Childermass's shoulder, and his eyes widen.

He's too well-trained to drop the light he's holding on to, but it's a near thing. He grabs Childermass as best as he can, supporting his weight and struggling to keep him to his feet. If it's any kin to the magic the Hunstman used on the Ringmaster, he already knows, it's over. Childermass isn't the embodiment of life and death, isn't a miracle. He's the man Lambert loves, and he's dying, with no guarantee that magic held in the shells lying dormant in a pocket dimension will bring them back.

"No." Lambert doesn't scream or shout his denial, ears pinning back against his head as he tries to brace Childermass with one arm, offering the only support he can, because he's got fuck-all to fix this and his voice is choking with useless rage and tears. "No, not like this--"

They'd been so fucking close.