Hot tears blurred Tristan’s vision. “Jas,” he cried, then shouted, “Jas!”
Her jaw bobbed as if to respond.
Only an air-thinned moan broke free.
Tristan’s back struck wood.
Creed yanked Tristan’s cuffed wrists above his head, his sour breath hitting Tristan like a punch.
Tristan’s heart lurched toward his throat—this was how he would die. Baking in the sun, watching every day and night inch by until the gods saw fit to take him, with his wiferight there—a level of torture he wasn’t sure he could stand.
The wood behind Tristan groaned, then cracked near the base. The plank disappeared from his back, and he fell with it. The air burst from his lungs and burned past his throat.
Creed stumbled and cursed. “Fuck,” he growled, kicking sand with a scuffed boot.
Tristan rolled off the plank and onto his forearms. A boot kicked him in the ribs. Hot pain splintered through him, and his breath caught behind clenched teeth. His lungs screamed for air, but he didn’t dare inhale—he wasn’t ready for the additional pain of expanding his ribs.
“What’m I going to do with you?” Creed scanned the broken plankboard. “Hav’ta rebury this thing,” he muttered. “Fuck.”
If Tristan was going to fight, now was the time—this was his last chance.
If only he had the strength.
If only hecared.
What was left?
The village was in shambles.
Everyone he knew and loved washere.
A distinct, foreign hum rose above that of the ocean and human suffering.
Voices.
Creed stilled and stared down the beach, fisting the hammer hooked to his hip. “What’s that?”
The answer came with the roar of hundreds. A battle cry to make the gods themselves wince. Men and women ran down the beach, swords raised to the sky.
Tristan’s heartbeat slammed and choked.
The gods had heard his pleas.
It was over.
Freedom ran across his sands.
Hope.
Creed’s jaw fell, and he descended on Tristan with a giant nail while clawing the hammer from his belt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he spat.
Tristan yanked and wriggled against his captor.
He was saved. He had a reason to fight again.
He just didn’t have the strength.
Creed spread open Tristan’s left hand atop the plank. The nail’s tip dug into the center of his palm.
