He’s still breathing …barely. His eyes are half-open, rolledback in his head. I crouch beside him and take his sword.
The weight of it feels right in my hand. It’s not anything like my blades. It’s plain, unadorned steel. A human weapon made for human hands, but it sits comfortably in my grip, and the balance is good enough for what I need.
I put the edge against the guard’s throat. My hand tightens on the hilt. The rage I’ve held leashed for so long strains against its bonds, hot and eager. I think of the cages, the collars, the bodies I saw through Alleria’s eyes.
I consider waking the guard up, allowing him to see my face and understand what’s about to happen to him. I want to watch the fear bloom in his eyes when he sees what stands over him.
But there’s no time for that. Not yet.
I draw the blade across his throat. The skin parts easily, blood welling dark and hot. His body jerks. I hold him down until all movement stops, his blood spilling over my fingers.
The rage doesn’t quiet with the kill. If anything, it burns hotter, fed by this first taste of what I’ve been denied.
I want more. I wantallof them—every guard, every patron, every human who ever walked past those cages.
But discipline holds. There will be time for that. I need to focus on my people tonight.
I wipe the blade on his shirt, and take the knife from its sheath, tucking it into my belt. Then I move toward the brazier, keeping low. The other guard is humming to himself, his finger tapping against his thigh in time with the rhythm.
Stepping out of the darkness, I drive my fist into his throat. The impact bruises his windpipe, and he goes down, making wet, strangled sounds. His hands fly to his neck, clawing at the damage as he tries to drag air through a passage that is swelling shut.
While he’s still choking, I grab his arm and wrench it behindhis back until the shoulder joint pops free of the socket. His body convulses, his mouth opening and closing around the pain, but the only sound that escapes is a thin, whistling gasp. I twist the arm higher, and the tendons tear. He goes slack beneath me, all the fight draining out of him at once.
I use his hair to drag him up to his knees.
“The wardstone.” I keep my voice low. “Where is it?”
His eyes roll toward me, glassy with pain and fear, and for a moment I think he’s too far gone to understand. Then he lifts his uninjured arm and points toward the far corner of the cage yard.
I drag him across to it, ignoring the way he whimpers and begs to be released. At the edge of my attention, the fae in the cages stir, but they stay quiet. I’m not entirely certain they know what’s happening or if they even recognize me, and I don’t have time right now to make it clear to them.
The stone is waist-high, half-buried in the ground, and I waste no time once I reach it. Shoving the guard to the ground, I drop down, pressing my knee against his throat, and draw the knife from my belt. He tries to pull away when I take his wrist, but he doesn’t have the strength, and the blade slices across his palm.
My own palm opens just as easily, and I press our hands together, letting the blood mingle, before I press them both to the stone.
The magic resists, pushing back against the blood. My eyes narrow, power surging through my fingertip and forcing our blood into the weave of the spell. The humming rises in pitch, becoming a whine that starts in our joined hands and spreads outward, running through blood and bone and sinew. The magic screams, a soundless cry that exists only in the place where power meets power.
I push harder still.
The hum of the ward stutters, falters … then dies.
The guard slumps against me. He doesn’t have long. The swelling will be cutting off his air supply and there’s nothing to be done about that. But his blood is still flowing, and until he draws his last breath, that’s all I need.
I look across the row of cages. The guard’s blood will only last so long, and every moment I spend here adds to the risk of being caught. I have to choose the one who will be the most useful right now.
I shove him forward, and drag him to Therin’s cage.
He’s already standing at the bars. The warding is still there, but weaker now. To break it completely, I’d need to find the other ward stone, but one will be enough for what I need to do.
“Come closer.” My words are little more than breath in the air, but Therin hears me.
He steps closer to the bars. I haul the guard to his feet, and press his hand to Therin’s collar.
“Brace.”
Therin throws his head back, squaring his shoulders. The iron groans, fighting against what I’m doing to it. Therin’s jaw clenches, his hands tightening on the bars. The tendons stand out in his neck as the magic heats the collar.
Then it cracks.
