The connection is wide open. The dam is gone. I feel his pain—the stinging fire in his shoulder, the bruising ache in his back. But beneath the agony, there is a terror so profound it nearly brings me to my knees.
He is not afraid of dying.
He is afraid of failingme.
I cannot protect her,his mind screams, a silent, frantic litany.I am hollow. I am nothing. They will break her.
He pulls back, holding me at arm's length. His eyes search mine, wild and desperate.
"Listen to me," he commands, giving me a small shake. "My magic is gone. Do you understand? I cannot veil us. I cannot flay their minds. I am just a man with a target on his back."
"I know," I whisper.
"Malek is here to kill me," he says, the words rapid-fire. "But he will want you. He saw you at the dinner. He knows you are the key. If he takes you..." A shudder rips through him. "He serves The Warrior. He does not dissect, Leora. He conquers. He will use you until you are dust."
He turns away from me, striding toward the far wall where a collection of ceremonial weapons hangs on display. He ignores the jeweled scepters and the ritual daggers. He reaches for a longsword—a heavy, brutal piece of steel with a simple leather grip.
He pulls it from the rack. The metal sings, a sharp, clear note in the dusty air.
It looks wrong in his hand. Imas is a creature of the Aether, a weaver of shadows and pain. Seeing him hold a physical weapon is like seeing a bird trying to swim. It is desperate. It is unnatural.
He tests the weight of it, grimacing as the movement pulls at his torn shoulder. He turns back to me. The sword hangs at his side, a heavy, useless bar of metal against the might of a Sorcerer Lord.
"Stay behind me," he says. His voice is low, stripped of all arrogance. It is just a statement of fact. "Stay in my shadow. If I fall... if they cut me down..."
He swallows hard, his throat working. He looks at the door, then back at me. The violet of his eyes is dim, the supernatural glow extinguished, leaving them dark and painfully human.
"Run," he whispers. "Do not try to save me. Do not try to help. You run to the surface, you steal a horse, and you ride forthe Emberforge. The Emberforge is a place of equality. Go there. Do not look back."
I stare at him. The air in my lungs turns to glass.
He meant to kill me five minutes ago. He stood over me with a knife, weeping because he thought my death would buy back his soul.
And now, he is standing between me and an army, holding a piece of steel he barely knows how to use, preparing to die so I might live.
"Imas," I breathe.
I reach out. I want to touch him. I want to push a wave of strength into him, to fill the hollow places where The Serpent used to be.
But before my fingers can graze his sleeve, the iron door at the top of the stairs explodes inward.
It bursts. The heavy hinges shriek and snap, the metal buckling under a massive, kinetic impact.
Imas spins, shoving me behind him. He raises the sword, his stance wide, placing his body as a barrier between me and the threat.
Dust billows into the room from the stairwell.
A figure stumbles through the haze.
It is not Malek.
It is Asema.
She crashes into the room, sliding on the smooth stone, catching herself on the wall. She is missing her helmet. Blood—bright red and copious—streams from a gash on her forehead, blinding one eye. Her armor is dented, the chest plate caved in as if struck by a giant’s hammer.
She looks at Imas, her good eye wide with panic. She is gasping for air, clutching her side.
"My Lord," she wheezes, spitting blood.
