His hand drops from my arm, but I catch it, holding on as tightly as I can, refusing to believe he’s gone.
“Wake up.” I search his face, desperate for him to speak again, desperate to hear his voice, no matter what dire warnings he has for me that might fill me with confusion and fear. “Wake up!”
Tears flow down my cheeks, and I can’t stop them, can’t stop myself rocking forward, my forehead pressing to his as I grip his hand so tightly, I’d hurt him if he were…
Alive.
“Please. You have to live.”
He is more than the Oracle to me. He is my family, my only friend, the only person I could trust, and he spent his life protecting me.
I, in turn, protected him. We looked after each other. We hid together, eking out a humble life in plain sight, and now…
Closing my eyes, I sink into my grief and let the tears fall. The world is burning down around me, the roar of flames and crackles of burning wood bursting at the edges of my hearing, but at this moment, I drown in a terrible silence.
The silence that comes when the former Oracle’s Sight is no more. The space between the death of one and the rise of the next.
Slowly, very slowly, I place my father’s hand on the ground, intending to release him only for long enough to close his eyes with each of my thumbs, the gesture of respect he taught me.
“For he shall See no more,” I whisper, choking on these final words, as I begin the prayer to close his eyes. “For he shall?—”
I gasp as my descending hand brushes an object wedged between his leg and the wall, and a sharp jolt of energy shoots up my arm.
I flinch backward as fast as I can.What…?
My mouth falls open to see the ribbon of aged, ivory silk trailing across my father’s ankle.
The wrapped blade. It’s here.
I recoil from it, the unbreakable rules Father taught me, making my movements instinctive.
Never touch this blade. Not even the cloth it’s wrapped in.
He gave it a name once: The Dragonstone Blade.
It was the one time he let slip more information than I believe he intended, telling me it was forged on an anvil made of dragonstone. Later, I found out that dragonstone was the name given to the rare, melted-then-hardened bones of fire dragons. Apparently, their flames were hotter even than Ember fire.
The blade’s name alone made me shudder, although I couldn’t be sure why. Dragons were vicious creatures, but we no longer needed to fear them.
Now I’m frozen, my heart slowly breaking while the haze of smoke increases around me.
Father must have retrieved the blade before he was stabbed. Probably when the first flames exploded,and he realized we would have to run again. Then he must have come back here, keeping away from the heart of the battle to wait for me, only to be stabbed.
Tears blur my vision, threatening to overwhelm me, but one thing keeps me upright: He would not want me to die here.
He would want me to escape. Even if I have to run through my grief, swallow my anger at fate, and force my fear into my pounding feet.
He would never want me to give up.
The battle in the distance hasn’t abated. At any moment, the Frost Fae could come upon me. The Iron or Ember Fae could fly across the air above me.
Worse, if their kings are here, then pure destruction will follow.
Once again, Father’s long-ago warning echoes in my memory, a fear I’ve held for as long as I can remember.
The three kings will stop at nothing to get to me.
I’m determined to disappear, and I need to take this blade with me. I don’t yet understand the blade’s history, but just as Father kept it hidden, so must I. At least until I can find out more.
