But it had been only seconds.
He rolled onto his side with a groan, fingers groping for his sword. Where had it gone? Through the slit in his helm, he caught a glimpse of crimson robes against the cobblestones. The witch. Her body lay still, crumpled.
But her head? Her head was…not where it should be.
His stomach clenched.
He tore at the straps of his helmet with fumbling hands, ripping it off and letting it fall with a hollow clang. Cool air slapped his sweat-damp face as he dragged in a breath. The smell of blood hit his nose.
He retched all over the ground until there was nothing left in his stomach but bile and the bitter tang of the witch’s flame.
He had killed before—men, soldiers.
But never a woman.
Dragging in a series of deep breaths through his mouth, he pressed his forehead against the cool stone, eyes squeezed shut, and tried to drag the pieces of himself back into place.
It was only when the ringing in his ears finally faded that he realized another sound had gone missing, too: the fighting.
Goldreach still roared distantly—shouts, crashes, the dull boom of something collapsing—but within the plaza itself…silence.
Spitting on the cobbles to rid his mouth of the taste of bile, Tristan forced his head up, blinking sweat and smoke from his eyes.
The three Arathians stood still on the stairs, exactly where they had been when the witch’s fire died. Frozen in place. They didn’t move. They didn’t speak. They might have been carved from stone, save for the fact that they were still breathing.
A chill crawled down Tristan’s spine, cold enough to cut through the heat clinging to his skin. His fingers finally found his sword; they tightened around the hilt until the leather wrapping creaked.
“What in the Lord’s name…” he whispered, his voice quivering.
“Tristan!”
Father Perero half-stumbled, half-ran down the steps, leaning hard on his staff. Up close, the old man’s face was streaked with sweat and blood, his white hair plastered to his brow. Relief blazed bright in his eyes.
“Oh, my boy,” the Shepherd breathed, dropping to one knee beside him. Cool, callused hands cupped his jaw, tipping his head this way and that, searching for wounds. “Bless you. Are you burned? Can you see? Speak to me.”
Tristan swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. “I…” His gaze snagged on the crimson heap on the stones. On the far-too-still shape beneath it. “I killed her, Father,” he managed, the words scraping from his throat. “I killed a woman.”
Father Perero followed his gaze. For a long moment, the older man said nothing. Finally, he whispered, “Yes.” The single word landed, heavy as stone. “Yes, you did.”
The Shepherd’s grip on his shoulder firmed. “But come and see how many more you have saved with your bravery.” He gestured with his staff toward the frozen Arathians, toward the cathedral doors beyond.
“Come,” Father Perero urged, bracing a hand under his arm. “Up. Slowly.”
Between the holy man’s grip and his own stubbornness, Tristan managed to lurch to his feet. The world tilted before righting itself again, his stomach rolling. His head throbbed with every pulse of his heart, but he stayed upright, weight mostly on his right leg.
Carefully, he eased his sword back into its scabbard.
His body hurt, but he was alive. Unburned.
…How?
Tristan swallowed hard. Questions for another time, perhaps.
“The men?” he asked the Shepherd, nodding toward the three Arathians on the stairs as Father Perero guided him upward. “What is… wrong with them?”
“They stopped the moment you struck her,” he softly replied, as if afraid of disturbing the enemy soldiers. “Like puppets on a string. I do not know if they are sleeping. Or…” His lips thinned. “Or something worse. Leave them. We have more urgent souls to see to.”
They climbed.
