I clench my jaw and lift my eyes to the starless sky. There are no gods to pray to tonight. They’re all dead.
And I will be, too, unless I run.
I glance past the fugitive to where Osian lies dead on the ground. A bitter ache constricts my heart. Leaving him feelswrong.
But I’m not trained for battle. I’m trained in magic. And if I fall here today, there’s no one else to bring him back. I need to escape so I can summon more Rhyfelwyr to take this rebel down. Then I can use my power to save Osian.
It will stretch the limits of my magic. Usually, I can only bring someone back within a few hours of their final breath. But I have to hope my memories of Osian run deep enough to shatter those limits.
“Forgive me,” I whisper.
I sink into the grass and scrabble down the side of the ridge, dirt and brambles scraping my hands. The fugitive bellows, but I don’t pause to see if he’s following. When I reach the bottom, I spring to my feet and run. Wind snatches my hair, and shadows thicken, making it nearly impossible to see where I’m going.
Footsteps rise behind me. He’s close already—too close.
A fist grips my heart. He’s not going to let me escape alive.
My lungs burn as I pump my arms. Brambles claw at my trousers, ripping a hole and nearly tripping me.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. He’s right on my heels, his shadow looming behind me. He snarls and reaches for me. I duck. My boot slams into something hard, and my legs crumple beneath me. I throw out my hands to catch myself, but the impact knocks the breath from my lungs.
I hiss between my teeth, rolling onto my back.
The rebel is already on me.
He grabs my wrists and pins my arms to the ground. Spittle flies from his mouth, raining on my skin. I writhe, but it’s no use. I can’t even grab a clump of dirt to fling into his eyes.
“Stop fighting me,” he growls.
As long as I’m struggling, he can’t draw his weapon. Which is…where exactly? He had it just before he started chasing me.
As I fight against the rough dirt, the fugitive hisses and tightens his grip until a painful ache shoots through my wrist. I bite down on my tongue, stifling the whimper. I can’t let him know this is working.
“I said stop fighting me!” he shouts again, then softens.” I don’t want to hurt you.”
I laugh bitterly, still squirming. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying,” he says through gritted teeth. Another spray of spittle hits my face. “No one else can do what you do. We could really use your magic. Just stop fighting.”
Ice floods my veins. “You want to take me prisoner.”
His grip loosens. “For now. But once you prove we can trust you, you can become one of us. You’d be better off getting as far away from the Order as you can.”
I bite the insides of my cheeks to stop the words from spilling out. I’d rather die—permanently—than join the rebels. Their brutality goes against everything I believe. They want to tear down the Order. They want to see our leaders burned. Without them, we’d have no way to survive the loss of our gods. The Order is what keeps our magic—and us—alive.
“What about Osian?” I whisper.
The rebel sighs, and even in the heavy darkness, I see the twitch in his jaw. “I can’t take a Rhyfelwr into rebel lands.”
“But you’d take his Swynwraig.”
“You’re no normal Swynwraig.” he says darkly. “Your magic is a weapon. One we can use against the Order.”
I swallow. There is only one way out of this, but I’ll have to break Osian’s strict rules. He believes in honor and honesty above all else. It’s why he hates my magic so much. There’s no honor in bringing the dead back to life, just to pry their secrets from them.
But he’s wrong. Learning those secrets has allowed the Order to prevent catastrophes.
And so I will happily lie. Fuck honor.
