“We need you to do better, Xandril.” I hate how my voice breaks, how the tears keep falling. “Please,” I whisper, dropping my head to our joined hands. “You can’t leave me to do this alone.
Chapter Nineteen
Xandril
Iwant out. I’m in the basement again. I don’t know what I did this time, but it’s dark and cold, and I want out. I need sunlight. Warmth.Freedom.
I can’t climb the stairs, though. I try, step after step, the door always beyond my reach. And each time, I climb higher, never growing any closer. I hear a voice on the other side, “rotted beast,”then the stairs vanish. I fall. I hit the ground. Again and again. “Cursed,”I fall. “Left to the Wilds,”I fall. “Worthless bastard.”Each fall is longer than the last. Each impact harder.
I want out, but I can’t leave.
I’ll never leave.
The frozen ground beneath me takes all the warmth from my body. All the fight from my soul. The voice keeps going, even after I’ve stopped climbing and curled into a ball to conserve my heat.
I’ve heard these things before, I’m not worth the cost to feed me, I’d be more use to the reach as a meal for some beast in the Wilds. That’s where I’m from and where I belong. The voice should be more muffled here, though. Not booming louder and louder, echoing through my bones.
“Stop,” the whine of an adolescent comes from my mouth. “Stop talking. Just stop.” Covering my ears doesn’t help; those voices are as much a part of me as the lava under my skin.
I look up the stairs, tears in my eyes, desperate to escape. I can’t make it, though. The staircase has grown so long that I can’t even see the door anymore. If I fall from that height, there’s no way I’ll survive.
There’s nowhere for me to go. Nowhere to hide, and the pain—so much pain—from falling again and again has me feeling like I’m already shattered beyond repair.
A broken sob rips from my chest, and I see white as a slice of pain lances through me.
Only, the light doesn’t fade. And it’s not quite white, more yellow-gold, like the sun.
It can’t be.
Using every bit of effort I can muster, I prise my eyes open just enough to let in the light.
It’s real.
Down at the bottom of the cellar, the glimmer of light from the top of the stairs makes me feel like I’ve fallen down a well. But that light is more hope than I can remember having. Ever.
Why now, though? After suffering so long, why would the door open for me now unless it’s a trap? An ambush waiting on the other side, maybe.
At least I know what’s in store for me down here. At least if I stay put, I won’t have to fall again. If I let the cold take me, I won’t have to hurt anymore.
But that golden light promises warmth and safety, and I’m powerless to resist. Like a moth to flame, I’m compelled by instincts beyond my understanding.
I pull myself up, legs trembling, breaths shaking, and move toward the stairs. The plank underfoot is steady, but my balance isn’t. I move up another step, and through the darkness above, can make out the shape of the doorway. My heart beats faster, eyes locked in place. Any moment the light will disappear, or change. The door will slam shut, or the stairs will fall from under me. I stay still, braced for it, then take another step. One after another, the stairs feel solid, but I’m not loosening my grip on the railing, not even when my knuckles ache from the pressure.
About halfway up the staircase a shadow cuts through the light, stopping me in my tracks, my heart seized with panic. The shadow twists and curls, growing larger and larger until a dark, sinister-looking vine snakes through the crack in the door, its tendrils spreading along the wall with terrifying speed. A predator after its prey.
Retreating a step, I don’t take my eyes off of the vine. It grows up over the door, closing off my only exit with a thick wall of growth, the tendrils growing down the wall and the railing both, searching for me, spreading a noxious scent that makes me gag.
More and more of the vines cover the walls, reaching for me, regrowing as fast as I’m able to rip them down or slice them with my claws. Already I’m feeling winded, chocking on the awful stench, ready to give up. The vines show no signs of slowing.
I yank down another mass of tangled vines, and through the overgrowth, I see a glint of that golden light. It sparks something in me—if that light can find its way through the vines, maybe I can too. I have to get out of this cellar, or it’s going to wind up my grave.
I have to keep fighting.
I’m not ready to die.
It’s a surprising realization after wallowing at the bottom of the stairs feeling sorry for myself, but it’s one I can latch onto. With the leaves and searching tendrils of the vine tickling my ankles, I know I’m out of time.
Without another thought, I rush up the stairs, slicing through vines and focusing on that golden light.
