I turn, my heart sinking into a cold, dark pit in my stomach. They stand there, barely twenty feet away, perfectly unharmed. Connor cracks his knuckles. Isander smiles, a slow, cruel curve of his lips.
“Round two, Salem,” Connor says.
They are back. Of course, I killed them for nothing. The dust has re-formed, the puppets re-strung. I cannot win by fighting. I can only lose pieces of my sanity, over and over again.
No, not them again. At least give me someone different.
They begin to advance. I take a step back, then another. My mind races, searching for another way. I can’t out-fight this loop, but I can figure out a way to out-last it.
I turn and run. My boots pound against the damp earth, sucking at my heels, trying to hold me back. I push deeper into the forest, weaving between the black, skeletal trees. Behind me, I can hear them, their footsteps unnaturally silent but their presence a crushing weight on my senses.
The forest doesn't change, every tree seeming like a copy of the last, like I’m running on a treadmill designed by a sadist. I risk a glance over my shoulder, and suddenly they are gone. Vanished. The woods behind me are empty, silent.
A trick. It has to be a trick.
But the encroaching pressure on my senses is gone, for the time being. I slow, my lungs burning, and stumble to a stop,leaning against a tree. The silence is absolute now, almost more unnerving than their pursuit. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drum in the dead quiet.
I slide down the rough bark of the tree, closing my eyes for just a second, just one second to catch my breath, to reset. That’s when something hits me.
I’m jerked backward, my head knocking against the tree trunk with a painful thud. Stars explode behind my eyes. I land on the ground, my sword skittering away into the gloom. My vision swims, and I scramble to focus on the figure that stands over me.
Curly brown hair, a wild halo in the pale moonlight. Familiar wide, brown eyes. A thin scar tracing her left jawline. My blood runs cold.
No. Not Riona.My classmate, teammate, possibly the peer, the friend, who “gets” me the most in the whole academy. Who’s covered my back more times than I can count during training and live missions.
Her form is flawless as she flows into a low fighting stance, one we developed together. There’s no wasted motion or flicker of doubt. Just a cold, relentless purpose that lives in the space where my friend’s soul should be.
My head throbs, the world still tilted from the impact. I see my sword, a gleam of silver a dozen feet away, a frustrating distance. Riona’s construct stalks toward me, her steps silent on the damp earth. I remember a night on a rooftop mission in a rain-slicked city, watching her move just like this, like a ghost in the dark, and feeling a profound sense of safety. She was my shield. She was the one who always had my back. Now, her face promises my end.
I scramble backward, my hands digging into the cold, wet soil. She lunges with a precise, disabling strike aimed at the nerve cluster in my shoulder. It’s a move I’ve seen her use todrop clearblood guards twice her size without a sound. I throw myself to the side, the blow glancing off my arm, sending a shock of numb fire down to my fingertips.
My mind flashes with an unwanted memory: Riona, laughing, her face flushed with exertion in the training yard, demonstrating that exact strike on a practice dummy.“See?”she’d said, her voice breathless.“Clean. Efficient. No need for spectral nonsense.”
Do I have to have memories to make this even worse?
Swearing, I roll, getting my feet under me, my body screaming in protest. She’s on me again, a whirlwind of calculated violence. A block, a parry with my forearm that leaves the bone humming. A kick that I barely dodge. Every move is familiar. Every feint is one we practiced for hours until it was muscle memory. It’s almost like fighting my own reflection, but one that feels no pain.
I feint left, then dive right, my fingers closing around the cold leather of my sword’s hilt. I feel a searing pain in my calf as her foot connects, but I have my blade. I spin around, bringing the sword up into a defensive posture, my breath coming in heavy gasps.
She stops, her head tilting slightly as she assesses the weapon. The gesture is so perfectlyher—analytical, calm, processing the new variable. The scar on her jaw is a pale, jagged line in the moonlight, a permanent reminder of the mission where I almost lost her for real. I remember stitching that wound myself in a dirty back alley, our hands shaking, her blood warm on my fingers as she tried to joke about getting a matching one on the other side.
She comes at me again, and this time there is a blade in her hand, a short, vicious combat knife that appears from a sheath on her thigh. The clash of our steel rings out in the dead forest, like a terrible, intimate music. We were the best sparring partners inour class because we moved in sync, we could anticipate each other’s thoughts. Now, that same synergy is a trap. She knows where I’m going to strike before I do. I know the opening she’s looking for.
I create it, a deliberate mistake in my form that I know she’s trained to exploit. She takes it, lunging forward, her knife aimed for my ribs. At the last second, I pivot into her, trapping her knife-arm against my body.
“I’m sorry, Ri,” I can’t help whispering, as I push the blade through her.
Her empty eyes watch me, unblinking, as fine, pale light begins to seep from the wound. Her body goes rigid and her left hand lifts slowly, as if to touch my face. For a horrifying instant, I think I see a flicker of recognition, of my friend, trapped inside.
But her fingers just graze my cheek, cold as stone, before she dissolves.
Yeah… That’s going to need therapy.
I can’t help the dry, heaving sob that escapes me, a sound that’s swallowed by the oppressive silence. Riona’s dust settles around me, coating my clothes, my skin…This is… fine.
A sound cuts through the trees. A slow, deliberate scrape of a boot on stone. I look up, wiping the blur from my eyes.
No, not you bastards.Again.
