And the screamingstops.
My lungsburnand I gasp—the warmth of the air sears through me like hellfire, turning my attempts at breathing into violent, barking coughs. Clutching at my heaving chest, I force my eyes open, ice cracking as I move. It falls away, chiming as it strikes the stone of the altar, and I stare at the black dotted ceiling from my back.
The living realm.
I’ve returned.
Gasping for air, I curl onto my side and groan against the grogginess. My innate, it’s still there, but it no longer feels as dark as it had in the veil. For the time being, it’s no longer desperate to consume me.
I struggle to get myself upright, trying to ignore the pain in my shoulder and skull. Ryc, Cyran, and Eve kneel upon the floor beside the altar a few feet away, their bodies encased in a thin layer of glistening ice.
Returned first.
Just as Ryc ordered.
Gods, Ryc!
I slip from the altar and instead of landing on my feet, I collapse upon the floor. Cenviri failed to warn me there would be a re-acclimation period upon our return. Staring at my boot, I will my feet to move.
After a staggering effort, my foot swivels.
Aether ripples in my chest, spreading down the length of my body, and the ice falls away, granting me full facility once again. Without waiting a second longer, I scramble to Ryc and my hands fly to his face and throat.
Coated by a thin layer of ice, he remains motionless.
But no wound.
No gash.
Worse still, no breathing.
No.
No, no, no.
My panic soars to sit among the stars and tears well in my eyes.
“You should wait for the veilfog to lift,” a feminine voice warns.
My eyes dart up as I tear at the ice over the buckles of Ryc’s breastplate, clawing at the cold with my nails. My nails bend and break, but the cold numbs the pain. A pair of light brown eyes beneath a crimson hood meet mine. She stands outside of the sanctified space, beyond the line of thirteen statuesque Generals. Peering between them, she and several others watch me warily.
I choose to ignore her, else the next words I speak will be less than kind to the House that’s hosted us in these blood-cursed lands.
The ice gives way, and in seconds I work the buckles free, swinging myself to his other side to repeat the process. Silver streams down my fingertips and, fighting against tears, I heave a shuddering breath.
His chest.
I need to see his chest.
His black leather breastplate clatters against the floor, ice falling away in a sheet only to shatter upon the floor. My fingers fly to his shirt as I straddle his lap. With a desperate yank, the center of his chest is revealed.
Nothing.
No silver, no wound.
But still no breathing.
I find the stare of the female bloodmancer. “Do something!” I scream, not caring how utterly desperate I sound. “Don’t just stand there! Where are your healers?”
