The remaining Eastlanders are dwindling, fewer than a dozen left.There are no magick-cast arrows this time. No stolen fire magick to make this easy for them. Their prince is losing his power.
Even in the cold night, sweat slicks my skin as I fight. It’s a true battle, clashing swords while maneuvering around fallen bodies and blood-slicked snow.
And this Eastlander is strong. With every swing of his blade, he drives me across the path, forcing me to navigate the littered ground with backward steps, not knowing what lies behind me.
He meets my sword with a swift undercut. I stumble back a step, but then I spin, changing our direction. He pivots and, on the advance, raises his weapon.
I block him, bracing his arm in my hand, and with the distance between us lessened, push my shorter blade into his chest. It takes a second effort to drive the tip through the bone, but his body gives, my sword sliding deep.
I withdraw my blade, and the warrior falls, the light in his eyes dimming. When I look up, my gaze catches on two men standing in the wood beneath the trees.
The Prince of the East and General Vexx. They weren’t there before.
Though the general looks ashen, fists tight and face drawn in a mask of tempered rage, the prince dons that halo of crimson shadows and wears a sickening grin. It’s as if seeing his men die is blood sport.
He lifts his chin and reaches toward the sky, fluttering his fingers. One of the souls drifts down from the treetops, surrendering as commanded. It hovers over him, a helpless husk. The prince opens his mouth, and…inhales it.
A wave of ecstasy comes over him, chest rising and falling fast, his rapture evident. His eyes close, he licks his lips, and I want to vomit.
When it’s over, the prince lowers his face, and his hooded gaze meets mine.
I lift my sword, on guard.
At first, there’s a moment of surprise in his eyes as he takes me in—I’m not supposed to be here, let alone with a weapon—but his malicious smile returns and spreads.
With a flick of his hand, fire blooms around him, though consumingnothing.
It’s a wall. A shield.
I can smell the Summerland mage’s magick in the air, laced with his prolonged death, that same scent from earlier in the tent. The aroma of fire, of a sweltering day, of dust and earth.
The prince and I stare one another down. He stands like a pillar of stone untouched by flame, amusement bright on his face. To him, we are nothing, and he is all.
He moves up the embankment, Vexx on his heels, circling the scene, hands clasped behind his back as a trail of scarlet shadows follows. The two men walk right past the singing Witch Walkers. No one else looks at or tracks them. Because they can’t see them.
But I can.
I turn, breathing hard, keeping my eyes on the prowling prince even as my friends and sister fight only footsteps away. This moment reminds me of all the times he came to me, a mirage, watching from some other plane.
Coward.I push that thought through the air the way I did days ago. I pray he hears it, feels it, knows it. Heisa coward, letting his men die, hiding in the wings, doingnothing, standing behind his shield of fire stolen from someone else’s magick. Someone else’ssoul. All while draped in the cloak of his Shadow World, too scared to face his enemies on his own.
A glimpse of Nephele snags my attention. She jabs her spear into a warrior’s mouth and jerks it out, but then she goes still. Eyes wide. Blinking. She clutches her throat, gasping like an invisible hand has a hold of her neck.
Before I can get to her, an Eastlander advances on me. Her moves are so swift that I struggle to match each strike.
I stagger back and almost lose my footing on the embankment, but the Witch Walkers’ song reaches me once more from the fringes of the wood. They lift their voices, singing down power, unaware that a devil lurks so near.
Pure energy falls over me, warm as summer sunlight amid all this cold, awakening something primal deep inside. With every swing of my blade, the tiny deaths I’ve stolen swell, filling me with a flood of emotions I’m not sure I can contain. My heart throbs,brimming with sorrow, misery, hatred, fear, disgust, anguish, adoration, serenity, craving. There are so many that I can’t discern them all, but they boil over, a fount of infinite connection to feelings that were never even mine.
I lunge forward, my grip on Killian’s sword tight and unrelenting, and with sure footing, thrust my blade into the Eastlander’s middle.
Before I can free my weapon, another Eastlander crashes into me. I stumble, and he takes the advantage, lifting his dagger, firelight glinting off its razor-sharp edges and in his equally sharp eyes.
When he brings down his arm, I grab his wrist. He carries so much force that I must release the sword and use both hands to hold him off.
He bears down, pressing me to a knee before him.
“Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah!” Alexus. I can’t see him, but I can hear him, that deep voice giving me life, reminding me what I’m capable of.
