“Is it over?” I ask, but my question goes unanswered. I struggle against Frane’s grasp. “Release me!”
She gives an irritated grunt and her wings unfurl from around us, spreading broad and powerful at her back. I’m reacquainted with the rain as Frane eases me to the ground and I take a moment to adjust the hem of my dress tangled at my knees, butwhen I glance down, seawater floods over my silk slippers. With each rock of the ship, the water darkens, shifting from blue to deep crimson. For a moment, I wonder if it’s a trick of the light, but when I look up, I see Arax lying flat on his back, blood pooling from the gaping wound in his chest.
His brethren surround him, arguing amongst themselves, but they take no action. The ship’s railing where I once stood is now rubble. Splintered planks and shattered wood scattered over the deck where a fierce battle has taken place. The beast is gone, and though Arax bleeds heavily, I do not believe all the blood belongs to him. He is the victor, but at what cost?
His warriors stand frozen, their gazes locked onto him as if they await his final breath rather than rushing to his aid. It shouldn’t matter to me. This Fae, Arax, has treated me with nothing but disdain since I first boarded the ship. He is no different from the others of his kind—a perfect lapdog to a dreaded master.So why does it bother me that no one is fighting to save him?
“Why is no one doing anything?” I yell the question plaguing me into the night, and in reply dozens of dark eyes glare at me.
Frane pushes past me to join the others who hover over Arax.
“Will you not help him?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “There is no saving him. The poison will kill him quicker than the wound.”
A crack of lightning startles me, but provides enough light to draw my eyes to the tooth as long as a sword protruding from Arax’s wound. At first, it was not visible in the darkness, but now the sight serves as a reminder of the Stormwyrm’s rows of needle-like teeth.
“Poison?” I mutter. The warriors continue to argue amongst themselves in their foreign tongue, an urgent rage to their tone. “What are they saying?” I ask.
Frane exhales. “They are deciding who kills him. Puts an end to his misery.” Her eyes stare coldly at me through her visor. “Gives him mercy.”
Mercy? What do Fae know of mercy?Though it makes sense that they would consider murdering one of their own a gracious deed. Arax lies on the deck, his chest shuddering with short, sharp breaths while his hand twitches at his side. This Mordorin monster may mean nothing to me, but as a Sister of the Vine, I am taught to embody kindness, empathy, and above all, forgiveness—even towards those who may not deserve it.
Frane joins the huddle, and it seems as if the conclave has concluded when I hear the scrape of a blade unsheathing, and Frane takes a slow step towards Arax.
“No,” I yell, and it takes a second for me to realize the word has come from my foolish mouth. Frane pauses and glares. “Damn it,” I mutter, balling my fist and thumping it against my thigh, but it is too late to stop now. I have already decided.
I stagger toward Arax, my feet slipping on the blood-slicked deck as the howling wind shoves against me, trying to drive me back. Each step feels like a battle, but I push forward, my gaze locked on where Arax lies. As I near him, a wall of broad Mordorin chests rises before me, blocking my way.
To those who face them at the edge of a sword, they are a nightmare you will never wake from. But to the rest of the world, they are the Blades of the Ebon Flight, the warriors of House Mordorin. Their sheer size and presence stops me cold.
“What do you think you are doing?” Frane snaps.
“I can help him,” I say, still unsure why my mouth is refusing to stay shut. “Let me through.”
I take a step forward, but the Blades close ranks and, with a pulse of energy that throbs in my ears, huge black wings emerge from their backs, blocking out the moonlight.
“You will not touch him, human,” a Blade scorns, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword.
“My name is Amara Tyne. I am Jewel of the Tenders,” I say firmly, hoping none of them see straight through me. “And it will not be long before I am the wife or your prince. So I command you to move aside.”
The Blade’s exchange venomous looks and my heart beats hard and fast in my chest as I wait for their response. Perhaps they will obey. Recognize me as their wicked prince’s bride and move aside.Yes, or they could slit your throat, throw you overboard, and tell their master the sea monster killed you as well.
Thankfully, they slowly step back, clearing a path to Arax and I am grateful the heavy rain and miserable dark hides the relief on my face.
I drop to my knees beside Arax, the chill of the deck biting into my skin. His breaths rasp painfully in his chest, his gasps escaping the shadows of his shroud helm. My gaze locks onto the jagged tooth protruding from the horrific wound, a grotesque reminder of the Stormwyrm. Swallowing hard, I wrap my trembling hands around it, summoning every ounce of strength to pull. Blood erupts in a violent spatter, and Arax lets out a strained cry, his body lurching forward before collapsing with a heavy thud against the deck.
“That will do nothing!” Frane growls. “You should have let us end him. He will suffer more now.”
I block out her words, refusing to accept them as the truth. Death should not be a mercy. Not when I have the power to save.No matter whose life it may be.
I place my hands on his chest and his blood seeps between my fingers and soaks through the sleeves of my green dress. This dress, made for me by the elder women, woven from sacred clothwashed in ancient waters that my people gave their lives for when the Fae sought to destroy all who did not bend the knee.
Now Mordorin blood once again stains our hands.
I close my eyes and try not to think about the war that tore our world apart. Instead, I think about the runes carved into the trunks of the old trees and the words only spoken in whispers. A warmth fills me, nestles beneath my skin and wraps around my bones like creeping vines. The threads of power strengthen and soon the whispers of the Souls are deep, bellowing chants that pound in my ears. A soft green light radiates from my chest, and the Blades take a step closer to look upon the glowing wooden rune dangling around my neck.
As the power of the rune courses through me, the light fills my fingertips and I push them deep inside Arax’s wound, amongst the torn muscle and severed organs until a luminescent pulse fills the ravaged cavity.
