Fuck.
It’s Saakar.
And it looks like he gave them a good fight. One of the soldiers staunches gushing blood from his crooked nose, while the others have various cuts and gashes marking their faces.
Their eyes widen when they see me.
“Commander!” one of the soldiers calls, twisting Saakar’s arm at an unnatural angle. “You’re alive! We’ve been—”
“Let him go.” I raise my sword in warning.
The man’s brow furrows. “Sire, we’re here to free you.”
His less-dense companion unsheathes his sword.
“Do I look like a captive to you?”
And then I charge.
Metal against metal.
Steel piercing flesh.
Open, vacant eyes.
These men were under my command in a different life. I swallow down the remorse spidering up my throat and help Saakar to his feet. His arm hangs limply at his side, pulled clean from its socket.
Saakar grunts as I position his arm. I give no warning before popping it back into place. To his credit, he doesn’t scream.
“Thank you,” he pants, blinking against the rain. “Where are you going?”
“The armory.” It’s where I would’ve gone. If Mayah and Tumaas didn’t come to find Sura, they must be seeking weapons first, then food to replenish reserves after that.
Before he can speak further, I turn and run.
Thunder rumbles overhead from a storm that isn’t mine. The pit of dread in my gut stretches wider, eclipsing every other rational thought.
I need to find Mayah.
Rain beats down against my skull and drips into my eyes. Mud squelches beneath my feet as I run toward the armory, heart pounding in my throat. If anything has happened to her, I’ll—
There. Knees bent, arms raised, Mayah stands in the distance.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
She’salive.She’salive.
No signs of injury that I can see. Each pounding footstep draws me closer to her.
A handful of Arbinji soldiers band tightly together, fighting against the rebels. A few of them begin shouting when they see me. I don’t spare them a second glance.
Mayah. I need to reach Mayah.
Her face is anguished when she sees me, tears brimming in her eyes, shoulders shaking with what I assume to be relief.
Five more strides, and I can almost touch her, ground myself with her presence, with the irrefutable proof that she’s all right.
“Thanks for not dying,” a deep voice rumbles, and I’m forced to tear my gaze to find it. Tumaas. A petite blond woman stands behind him, crossbow drawn and ready. Tumaas jerks his head toward Mayah. “She’s been driving herself—and us—insane.”
