He peered over the edge. Gessa was pale, her eyes wide with terror. And below her, dangling in the darkness, Polan stared up at them. He didn’t look frightened anymore. He looked satisfied. He was a heavy, anchoring weight, pulling them all toward death.
“She’s mine,” Polan wheezed, his voice thin in the wind. “You can’t hold us both, cripple. Let her fall.”
Ky’s vision tunneled. His arms felt like they were being ripped from their sockets. The leverage was all wrong; without his legs to anchor him, he was sliding inch by inch toward the edge.
“Let. Go.” Ky gritted out, staring at Polan.
Polan smiled—a bloody, broken expression of triumph. “Never.”
Ky saw the decision form in Gessa’s eyes. She looked from Ky’s straining face, to the blood smearing on the stone as he slid, and then down to the man dangling from her arm.
“No,” she whispered. “You don’t get to keep me.”
With a final, defiant cry, she loosened her grip on the ledge—forcing Ky to take her full weight—and used her free hand to pry Polan’s fingers from her wrist. She clawed at him, breaking his grip finger by finger.
“What are you doing?” Polan shrieked, the composure finally breaking. “Gessa, no! You need me!”
“No, I don’t,” she said, her voice cold. She ripped his thumb back.
Polan’s grip broke.
His shriek echoed once in the night air, a sound of pure disbelief, before it was cut short by a sickening, wet impact from the courtyard far below.
Gessa swung freely, a dead weight. With a final, guttural roar that tore itself from the deepest part of his soul, Ky heaved backward, dragging her over the ledge and onto the solid stone of the tower floor.
He collapsed on top of her. All he knew was the feeling of her, solid and breathing beneath him. They lay there, tangled together in the dust and darkness, their ragged gasps the only sound in the sudden silence.
From the base of the tower, a new sound began: the familiar, welcome bark of a command cutting through the din of the battle.
“The tower is secure! Ky? Gessa! Are you up there?”
It was Jaedon’s voice.
The storm was over. Safe. Gessa was safe.
“Night?” Ky whispered, the name scraping out of his throat as he forced his head to turn.
A few feet away, a dark, crumpled shape stirred in the shadows. A low, ragged chuff of breath answered him through the bond—weak, pain-filled, butalive.
He was still with them.
Ky closed his eyes, his hand still gripping Gessa’s shirt, and let the darkness finally take him.
44
THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE
The world returned one sensation at a time. The cold of the stone floor seeping through her tunic. The coppery smell of blood. The ragged sound of her own breathing, a painful hitch in her chest. And the weight. The solid, blessedly real weight of Ky collapsed on top of her. He was unconscious, but he was breathing. The soft puff of his exhale was the only proof he was alive.
From below, Jaedon’s voice echoed again, closer this time. “Report!”
Gessa tried to answer, but all that came out was a dry, croaking sound. She shifted, trying to get a better look at Ky’s face in the moonlight. He was pale, his features slack, but he was here. He was alive.
Heavy, running footsteps pounded up the stairs, and then the rooftop was full of people. Familiar faces. Jaedon was the first to reach them, his face grim. His wild horses were not with him, a testament to the severity of the situation. Close behind him was Flint, his bulk a comforting presence, and Renn, his usual manic energy replaced by a focused intensity. She saw Torvin and Bramfrom her own cohort in the background, their faces a mixture of awe and horror at the scene.
Relief hit Gessa, making her dizzy. They were here. They were real.
“Gods above,” Jaedon breathed, his eyes taking in Ky’s still form and the mangled angle of his leg. He dropped to his knees beside them. “Gessa, are you hurt?”
