I can’t stop her.
She’s so much stronger than me—she’s stronger than anything beneath the clouds.
She lifts her hands, fingers oddly angled downward. Her hair writhes around her like living creatures. A circle of swallows from the chapel steeple circles overhead, like a crown of feathers, before flying over the wall, away from the cobalt smoke.
A cold jolt lances through my chest—not pain, exactly, but something worse. The moment my eyes lock on her, I know.That pose, the animals—it’s the exact image etched into the foundation stones of Drahallen Hall.
Immortal Solene, poised above burning Calisyrune.
“Little violet—” I try, but the vine curls up around my chest, continuing up to my neck, and squeezes just enough that I can’t speak.
“You prayed to the wrong fucking goddess,” she says to the weeping women.
And brings her hands down.
The ground tears open, the reek of sulfur gas pouring up. Matron White is swallowed whole. Not even her screams escape the pit. The other Sisters run for the gate, clawing at it, but Sabine sweeps her hands wide, and the blazes of blue fire streak across the courtyard.
Smoke fills the courtyard, so thick and blue that all I can make out of the women are their falling corpses.
“Sabine…” I choke out, but the vine tightens on my throat.
I know she means to keep me quiet. To keep me restrained so I won’t get hurt by her blue fire. But she doesn’t realize…
She doesn’t know…
She’s killing me.
Chapter 13
Sabine
Night slinks in as I crouch in the ruins of an abandoned old sheep barn somewhere deep in the woods, stacking firewood with trembling fingers.
The scent of sulfurous smoke still clings to my hair—a heady reminder of what happened.
Basten lies across from me, his head cushioned by a few handfuls of hay. He’s still unconscious. How many hours has it been? Three? Four?
Myst and Ranger stand partway in a dilapidated stall, half open to the outside, swishing their tails. They don’t eat the hay in front of them. They’re still jittery. Anxious. Stomping their feet.
I lay another few twigs, then snap my fingers for a spark.
Damn.Doesn’t work. My fingers are weak, shaking.
I grit my teeth and concentrate, pushing past the exhaustion that digs all the way to my bones, and snap again.
This time, fey sparks a tiny flame.
I sag in relief, but it took the last ounce of my strength. I sit back on my heels, dig through Basten’s knapsack at my side, and pull out his iron pot. I pour in the last of our water canteen, then crush a handful of beautyberries and pine needles into it.
Wiping my tired eyes, I give a nod of dismissal to the chipmunks.Thank you for gathering these for me, friends.
They scamper back into the barn’s rafters, where they have babies to care for.
I stir the brew with a stick, willing the water to boil faster. If I had more strength, I’d make the fire burn hotter. Hell, I could probably even boil the water without a flame. But after what happened at the convent, I’m barely able to keep my eyes open.
I chew on my lip. Twist my hair in knots. Keep crossing and uncrossing my legs.
From across the fire, a weak groan sounds. I perk up so fast I forget to breathe, then scramble over to Basten’s side. He moans again, reaching up to the angry red bruise stretching across his neck.
