She’s so small, an insignificant speck compared to the power roaring around us—the power that is me.
Her voice is pleading, and the look in her eyes—
My feet hit the ground, and I take a faltering step, catching myself. She looks so scared. Why is she scared of this glorious tempest—of me?
She’s scared of me.
I try to call the cyclone back into myself, commanding it back into my body. Then I’m choking, just as I did the night she visited me—
Aren. I remember.
Her warmth, her touch, the prophecy.
The Whisting surges through me, greedy and grasping, leaving me empty. I’ve used up all the air around me, and now I have none left to breathe.
I created a vacuum. An abyss. My knees hit the stone, and I clutch at my throat, desperate for a breath that refuses to come.
The knife. I remember the knife. I reach for it at the small of my back, but my fingers are numb, and I fumble for the hilt, struggling to pull it from its sheath. When I finally plunge it into my healing hand, nothing happens.
I still can’t breathe. The blood magic doesn’t stop the Whisting this time.
I close my eyes and turn inward. I’m so cold. Everything inside me is frozen. I gasp and choke. The Rings are the only thing humming hot and strong as they unleash their power and drain me of life.
I’m going to die.
Then something hits me square on the side of the head.
A skillet?
I tumble forward, but Aren catches me before I fall.
I’m so shocked, I take a deep, dizzying breath.
A breath!
Aren is holding on to me with one hand, clutching the skillet in the other. Her face is scratched, her clothes torn and dirty, hanging off her like rags.
“Breathe!” she screams at me.
It’s an order.
But Iambreathing, I want to tell her as I fall forward into her arms with a huge, gasping wheeze.
“Harvest Mother!” Aren cries, gripping me tightly. “Don’t die on me!”
I cough so hard I taste copper, burying my face into her chest. She’s the only thing keeping me from falling over. She grabs my head, her fingers pressing into my face as she looks me over. I can barely keep my eyes open, I’m so drained. Her expression is racked with worry and anger, but mostly relief. I crack a smile as my head lolls on my neck.
Everything goes black, and then Aren is shaking me by the shoulders, as if she can rattle some life into me. “Dietan!” she cries, her beautiful eyes shining with tears. “Come back to me! Dietan!”
I can’t speak.
I saved everyone from the Kilandrar, but if I hadn’t stopped when I did, I would’ve brought the whole bridge down. I would have killed everyone anyway. I would’ve killed myself, too, if it weren’t for Aren’s skillet.
“Yes?” I croak. “What is it?”
She clamps her lips tightly together, glaring at me like she wants to hit me again. Her chin trembles. I must still be dizzy, because I could swear she holds me a little tighter, a blush rising in her cheeks. I want to run my fingers through her thick hair, to wrap my body around hers. How delicious it was to kiss her at the temple. I could’ve kissed her for days. Even when she’s furious with me, she still takes my breath away—in the good way.
“You’re really pretty,” I murmur weakly. “Shall we have that talk now? About our feelings?”
