Aya closed her eyes against the thought. No. Those visions were not real.
But this wound was. Did that mean …?
Agony ripped through her, so sharply it stole her breath.
‘Mora, please.Please. I beg you.’ The prayer to the goddess of fate was a frantic, broken gasp.
He couldn’t be dead. Accepting it would mean lying back down on the desert floor, and if she did that, she wouldn’t rise again.
She scanned her surroundings once more. In the distance, far enough away that she could barely make out their red hue, sat the mountains. She looked behind her to see nothing but sand.
She had no idea where they’d left her. The best she could do was head for the mountains and hope she made it there before she died of thirst.
Aya gripped the handle of the knife, her breath coming in shallow pants. She could do this. She had to get back to the palace – had to do something to stop the agony that was threatening to obliterate her.
She tugged on the handle, her gritted teeth not enough to contain her scream as the knife slid free. She had moments to act. Her palm flared with light as she seized that healing power, seized it and refused to let it falter as she laid her hand over her chest, knitting the flesh there into a red, ragged mark. The pain remained, but … healed. At least enough to keep her from bleeding to death.
Aya’s palms found the sand, her body braced on all fours as she struggled to steady her breathing. A wave of nausea passed over her, whether from the pain or the early signs ofdehydration, she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a sip of water.
With a grunt, Aya forced herself to her feet, her eyes fixed on the mountains.
She would get back, and Will would be there.
She refused to accept anything else.
Aya walked for a day, stopping only for short periods to rest her shaking limbs. Her mouth was dry, her throat aching as she forced herself to breathe. She longed for another freezing night, which by the high position of the sun was still hours off.
She hadn’t dared to sleep. Not when she was so afraid she wouldn’t wake.
Her legs trembled as she staggered another step, the world tilting, the desert haze intensifying until everything beige and blue was a blur, until the only thing she could see were those damn mountains in the distance that seemed to get further and further away.
Just a bit more. She took another step, her breath scorching her lungs. Small rocks cut into her hands as she fell.
Just a bit more.
She dragged herself forward, a frustrated sob escaping her as the sand burned her hands. She’d crawl the entire way if she had to.
But even that was too much for her sick and battered body. Aya’s arms gave out, and she hit the ground with a grunt.
‘Please,’ she rasped, tears stinging the cuts on her face as the wind kicked sand into her eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest, begging for life.
She reached to pull herself another inch, unconsciousness beckoning her to its depths. Another gust of wind had her closing her eyes, willing herself to stay above the churningsurface, because she knew, she knew if she let herself slip into that waiting darkness, she may never rise again.
Her mind reached desperately for something, anything, to keep her tethered to this world.
It found eyes the color of river stones flecked with green. The warmth of a calloused hand on her cheek. The rich tenor of a laugh so few were blessed to hear.
‘Please,’ she whispered.
The world went black.
67
If this was death, it was warm. Aya’s head felt heavy, her vision blurry as her eyes peeled open. She could hear a steady crackle, almost as if fire was devouring wood near her.
Fire.
The flames had her jolting up, her hands grappling for some purchase on the rocky ground as she scrambled backward.
