“Get away from her!” Arax’s voice thunders, and in the blink of an eye, he is there.
Arax’s sword swings in a vicious arc, forcing The Golden Son back, his blade barely deflecting the strike in time. They clash with a resounding crash, steel meeting steel as sparks fly. I scramble to my feet, gasping for air as I watch them, my heart pounding in my ears.
Arax fights like a demon, his every strike powerful and precise, his body a blur of motion. But The Golden Son is just as fast, just as ruthless, and they move like two forces of nature, colliding with such intensity that it shakes the very ground beneath them.
For a moment, I think Arax might win, his sword cutting through the air with deadly precision. But then, The Golden Son feints, a quick flick of his wrist, and before I can even shout a warning, his blade finds its mark.
“No!” My scream tears from my throat as Arax stumbles, his sword slipping from his grasp as he falls to the ground, blood pouring from the wound in his abdomen. The sight of him crumpling, his strength fading, rips through me like a jagged knife.
The Golden Son stands over him, victorious, his blade slick with Arax’s blood. He turns his gaze to me and stalks forward, but my eyes are mesmerized by the sight of my friend’s life force staining the grass, turning the flowers red.
“Such a waste,” he mutters as he looms above me and raises his sword over his head.
Then suddenly Ashen leaps from within my tangled hair, transforming from a little bundle of paws to the giant, feral lion I know he can be. Tentacles shoot out from his back, ensnaring The Golden Son and tackling him to the ground.
The Golden Son calls out, slashing and stabbing at Ashen, but his blade simply glides through the smoky form of my protector.
I claw my way across the field, falling to my knees beside Arax, my hands trembling as I cradle his head in my lap. His face is pale, blood soaking through his tunic as his breathing comes in ragged gasps. “Arax, stay with me,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Stay with me.”
His eyes flutter open, just barely, and he looks at me, the pain etched in every line of his face. “I’m sorry… Princess…”
“No,” I choke, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I can save you.”
I press my hand to his wound, and the rune around my neck gives a faint glow.
He reaches up, his bloodstained fingers brushing against my cheek, his grip weak but steady. “Amara. Stop. I’m ready.”
“No,” I weep, “I will not lose you.”
Arax’s hand trails down my cheek, his knuckle wiping a tear from my jawline, and I’m so focused on his wound, I don’t notice when he grips my rune in his hand and it vanishes in a wisp of black smoke.
My eyes widen. “No! No! What have you done?” I grasp around my neck, but it’s gone. “Where is it! I can’t save you without the rune. Where is it!”
I plunge a hand into the soil, praying that the Souls will grant me the power to save him. But I have drained the earth completely. There is nothing left. I panic and suddenly I’m shaking Arax, my tears flowing without limits, my voice screaming into the air, unbridled and unchained and bursting with pain.
“Arax! Bring it back! Please bring it back!” Without my power, all I can do is push hard against his wound, trying to stop the blood. But there’s too much. There’s just too much. “You can’t leave me, not like this. You promised.”
He smiles as blood trickles from his mouth, his gray hair soaked through, the glint of his eyes fading. “Estra,” he murmurs.
My heart shatters as his smile fades, his eyes distant, focused on something beyond me, on someone I cannot see, and when his eyes close, the blood-soaked red ribbon slips from his sleeve as his hand falls limp on the grass.
“No… no, please.” My voice breaks, sobs wracking my body as I hold him close. “Don’t leave me.”
The battle rages on around us, the screams of dying men and the clash of steel a distant hum in my ears. The Golden Son frees himself from Ashen’s jaws and mounts his horse, and I glimpse his golden armor retreating into the distance. But here, in this moment, everything else fades away. The Grove, the Legion, the Fae.
Arax of House Mordorin, Reaper of the Ebon Flight, the man who stood by my side, who protected me when I couldn’t protect myself—who I brought back to life twice—now lies dead in my arms.
In the place he chose. With the name of the daughter he lost on his lips.
Chapter 35
The Grove is victorious.
The Legion of Saints has retreated, their ranks shattered and scattered to the wind, but as I recall the carnage, the victory feels hollow. Bodies of our people strewn across the battlefield—warriors who fought to protect this sacred place, who gave their lives for something far greater than themselves. But they are gone now, their blood soaking into the earth they swore to defend.
Morning sun streams through the window, and I stare blankly at the shimmering slants of golden light from my bed. My face is somehow numb yet aching at the same time, my left eye swollen and sealed shut, the last thing it saw being The Golden Son’s boot. The rest of my face is in no better shape, marred by cuts and bruises, leaving my skin more blue and purple than brown.
Solena sits beside the bed, cleaning the arrow wound in my thigh and applying a fresh bandage. The other arrow wound in my arm healed when I used Fae magic fighting the Legion. These last scrapes came after, but even if I could heal them, I would not want to. It would be an insult to the memory of those who died ifI used magic to cure my inconvenient scratches when I still draw breath.
