The last of my resistance shatters. I want to collapse into him and surrender completely. I try to form words, but none come.
The agonizing tear of the scourge at my back finally abates. My fingers tremble before giving out the second I think it’s safe enough—hoping I’m right. Hoping he will catch me if I finally let go.
My foot slips on the opening, and I tumble backward, consciousness wavering. Lucan jolts forward. His hands tighten on my waist, holding my weight. He comes crashing down with me. We twist in the air, tumbling.
I try to wrap my arms around his neck and brace.
Then everything goes black.
29
Somehow, Lucan must have taken most of the fall. I feel his body thud beneath mine, his arms tightening around my waist and pulling me close. I try to lift my lashes, let him know I’m fine, but my eyelids feel as heavy as a dragon landing on a rooftop. My whole body groans from the strain of trying to exist.
Lucan clutches me tighter. His breath is hot against my cheek as he pleads into the now-clear air, “Stay with me, Isola. I have you.” He sits us up, settling me across his legs. My head lolls against his chest.“I have you.”
Waves of exhaustion and dizziness course through me. I shudder, cold all over. I wouldn’t be shocked if frost coated my flesh.
I can’t believe that worked. The vicar swore I was never to touch sigils, claiming they would only slow any progress I made, that I had to learn to draw from the Font directly—like Valor, like I did on the day of the dragon attack when I was twelve. But as my chest lightens with victory over the scourge, a darker thought claws in. What if he never meant to guide me? What if he only meant to keep me weak and afraid, pliable to his whims?
I don’t know how long we sit there, each lost in our own thoughts. Finally, when I’ve leeched enough of his warmth to open my eyes, I pull away and struggle to my feet. Every muscle aches. Red dust coats the room, the harmless remnants of the scourge. We both turn our gazes to the dragon head. It’s nothing but a blackened skull now.
“You must’ve released a lot of Etherlight.”
He didn’t intend for it to happen, but the remark sets off a gnawing guilt within me. I did just use a lot of Etherlight. The Font, for as massive as it is, refills with Etherlight very slowlydue to the imbalance of the world. Every draw on it—from the Mercy Knights’ weapons to tiny repairs—removes a little more and weakens it. Vinguard is slowly dying by a thousand small cuts.
I shake my head and ignore the guilt.We didn’t have a choice. “This wasn’t me. It was already blackening earlier in the presence of the scourge.”
“I thought dragons are immune to the scourge because they’re also made of Ethershade? Shouldn’t it still be intact, then?” He sounds genuinely confused.
“You assume what the Creed has told you is true.” I also stare at the skull, thinking of everything my mother told me. With one blackened and brittle skull, her wildest theory has evidence: dragons are also creatures of Etherlight.
Lucan stares, expression impossibly unreadable. He’s too smart not to piece it together with what I’ve heavily implied. Everything he’s ever been told is proving untrue. Yet…he doesn’t seem surprised or horrified? There’s a grim acceptance of it. But not the shock I’d expect.
I don’t have time to read into it now, and he doesn’t have time to stand there lost in thought. “Help me break down the skull. It should be easy to get in the barrel now.”
As soon as I grab the hammer, my knees wobble. I’m about to collapse to the floor when Lucan’s arm slides around me, pulling me against his body tightly.
“I’m here.” He says it like he plans for it to be true far longer than this singular moment. But that’s absurd. I shake the thought from my mind. “Let’s put you over here where there’s less dust, then I’ll take care of the skull and clean up this room.”
He must have the same thought as me about how bad it would be if they find evidence of the scourge. Anything out of the ordinary is going to be used against us.
Lucan helps me over to where the tools are, by the door. I’mstill catching my breath, but, oddly, I don’t feel out of sorts. In fact, despite drawing directly from the Font more than I ever have before, my whole body feels at peace. My heart isn’t erratic, my skin doesn’t itch, my eyes and nails seem…normal.
Without warning, the door opens to reveal a Mercy Knight, hood pushed back, draping his shoulders. His eyes widen to where I can see the whites all the way around his irises, and he staggers back.
Lucan raises his hands. “We can explain.”
“Scourge dust?” he murmurs. Then, louder,“Cursed!”The man draws his silver blade in a blur and charges.
Lucan dodges with a speed I didn’t think him capable of. He doesn’t retaliate, even though I swear I can see the twitch of his fingers as though he quenches the urge to disarm the man. I definitely wasn’t the only one the vicar gave special training to.
“We’re not— Please, I—” Lucan dodges another near miss.
The dagger the knight is brandishing has enough poison in it to fell a dragon with a single nick, provided one makes it through their scaly armor. Lucan is going to get himself killed.
“Cruelty!” Lucan jumps back as the clamor of more Mercy Knights’ armor echoes in from the hall. “We demand cruelty.”
Killing a dragon cursed is to show mercy. Mercy might be swift and painless, but cruelty at least demands an audience with Vicar Darius.
