I leap.
His hand clutches at the back of my tunic, and I howl as his blade slices into my back. I hit the ground, my hand inches from my knife.
But my eyes are turning blurry, my muscles strangely lethargic.
“Poison,” I mumble.
Albion buries his hand in my hair as my fingers brush my knife. I clumsily wrap my hand around the wooden hilt, but it’s too late.
Albion drags me by my hair, toward the sigil. Tears flood my eyes from the pain, but all I can manage is a gasp. From my spot on the ground, I can see his face, lips thin, eyes hard as he ignores my weak struggles.
The room dims around the edges.
My head slams into the ground and I force my eyes open. We’re almost at the sigil. I lost time.
Albion steps away, beginning a low chant. I don’t recognize the language, but I don’t need to, because I recognize the dark hum of power filling the room, sweeping into every corner.
It’s thick and suffocating, sliding down my throat and choking the breath from my lungs. It’s the same power I encountered when I found Albion’s victims.
I can’t die like this.
I know what truly happens to thesacrifices. I know they’re stuck in their rotting bodies, with some level of awareness of what has happened to them.
They don’t move on. They stay here. Trapped.
My heart thunders, my body breaking out in a sick, greasy sweat.
Albion’s voice becomes louder—a deranged plea to a god that will kill us all without thought.
My hands are still numb, but I manage to turn my head. My dagger is still in my hand. Now, if only I could tighten that hand. Could lift the knife and …
I blink my eyes open.
Albion is still chanting, but I know I lost time. Again.
My heart rattles my ribs, nausea sliding through my gut.
Albion’s voice rises further as he beseeches Mortuus. My little nap has had one benefit. I can tighten my hand around the hilt of my knife.
Albion turns to me, his eyes burning like blue flames as he leans close, pulling my limp body into the sigil.
My vision spirals, my lungs so tight I’m fighting for each breath. I bare my teeth, urging my hand to lift my knife. My skin turns clammy. Terror flashes through me—terror like I’ve never known before. The kind of terror that comes with the knowledge that even death would hold no solace for me.
A shadow darts close to Albion.
Albion screams as Jorah buries his knife in his shoulder. He lashes out with his fist, and Jorah cups his face, collapsing to the ground.
But he’s bought me the single moment I need.
Albion leans over me once more, face turning a dark red as he continues his chanting.
I catch the flash of his blade out of the corner of my eye. But I’m already moving. One shot. I have one chance at this, and if I miss, it’s over.
He leans closer. Just close enough.
I slash out with my blade. Blood sprays, dousing my face. A yawning gash opens in Albion’s throat. His hands slap at the torn flesh, as if he’s attempting to hold the open edges of the wound together.
He can’t. I cut too deep.
