“What were you doing here?” I whisper.
His vacant eyes reveal nothing. A long time ago, Osian and I shared everything. He knew about my necromancy then, of course, but it never bothered him because it had little to no effect on his own life. It wasn’t until I was assigned to be his Swynwraig—the magic wielder who can channel the Order’s power into him—that he revealed exactly what he thinks of my magic.
Befriending me is one thing. Working with me, it turns out, is quite another.
I place my fingers on his throat. He has no mark, not like the rebels, but it’s still the quickest—and most reliable—way for me to channel myothernon-Order magic into him.
“Please don’t hate me for this. I just can’t let you die, Osian” I say, my voice breaking. I think of his smile, his laugh, and spin through dozens of memories in quick succession. Each one is like a spark in the darkness, the light I follow when I lose my way inside my broken mind. I know Osian better than I know myself. He’s the brother I never had. And because of that, I know he’ll live.
“Anadl einioes.”
Another flash of pain shoots through me, harsher this time. It’s too soon after the previous spell. I gasp and press my fingers harder into his throat, willing my magic to flow into him, more permanently than ever before.
Osian trembles. A rush of relief hits me.It worked. He’s here. He’s alive.
I release my hold and sink back on my heels, digging my fingers into the dirt. His chest rises and falls with a deep, gargling breath that shakes his entire body. Suddenly, he sits up with a wild light in his eyes. His golden gaze lands on me.
Realization sweeps across his face.
Then he’s on his feet, his expression contorting into anger.
“No.” He scrapes at his neck, where the fugitive cut him, but the wound has already closed. Only a line of blood remains. “Tell me you didn’t, Angharad. Tell me you didn’t!”
His rough shout echoes through the valley. Tears spill down my cheeks, and I hastily wipe them away before he can see them. I knew he’d be angry. Still, a part of me hoped he’d sweep meinto his arms and crush me against his chest, like he used to back at the academy.
Before he decided he reviles what I can do.
“I’m sorry. I had to.” I stand on wobbly legs, desperate to reach for him. But I can tell by the look on his face, that’s the last thing he wants me to do. “How are you feeling?”
He gapes at me incredulously. “How am Ifeeling? I’m feeling pissed off, Angharad. That’s how I’m feeling. When the Order assigned you to me, I told you I never wanted you to raise me, that I don’t want to have anything to do with that fucked up magic.”
I flinch.
“I couldn’t let you die, Osian.”
Despite my every effort, tears spill down my cheeks again.
The weight of everything that’s happened in the past few hours presses down on me. Tracking Osian across the wild borderlands, finding him dead, killing his murderer, and now this. I feel like I might crumble beneath it all. It’s too much.
Osian’s gaze sweeps over me, then he groans. “Oh, come on, Ang. Please don’t cry. I know why you did it. I just wish you hadn’t. You know how I feel about your magic.” He exhales. “I told you I never wanted you to use it on me.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, looking away.
A long pause follows. “How long do I have, do you reckon?”
“If you were anyone else, I’d say fifteen minutes. Half an hour, if you’re lucky. But…”
“But what?”
The ache in my throat makes it hard to speak. “I’ve only ever brought back strangers. You’re different. I know you better than I know myself.”
His gaze hardens. “You think I’ll be like this for a long time.”
A flash of irritation pushes the sting of his reaction aside. “I just saved your life. Most people would be glad of that.”
“I’m not alive, and you know it.”
I sweep my gaze across his face. From the strong curve of his jaw to the curl of his blond hair across his brow, to the golden glint in his eyes. Nothing is different from the thousands of other times I’ve seen him. He’s as beautiful as ever.
