She looked back at me, and something that might have been approval flickered in those impossible black eyes.
"Your mate chose well when he gave you that stone. And you chose well when you came to us instead of facing this evil alone."
She placed one hand on my shoulder—her palm warm against my skin, the markings beneath her flesh pulsing with soft blue light that seemed to sync with my own heartbeat.
"Rest now. Eat. Regain your strength. Tomorrow, we ride to war."
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat, past the overwhelming flood of relief and gratitude and terror.
Ahrick.
Hold on. Just hold on a little longer.
I'm coming.
Chapter 19
Ahrick
Dawn came slowly to Fange City, as if the sun itself was reluctant to shed light on what was about to happen.
I watched it through the narrow slit in the cell wall—a crack barely wide enough for light, but enough to mark the passage of time. Enough to know my death was approaching with the sun, creeping closer with each ray that spilled across the scarred landscape outside.
The cell stank of old blood and despair—scents that had soaked into the stones over years. Walls slick with moisture that might have been water or something worse, something I didn't want to think about. Chains linked around my wrists, heavy iron that bit into my skin with every movement. These wouldn't break easily. The metal was thick, reinforced, anchored to the wall with bolts that looked like they'd been driven into solid rock.
I could do it.
The thought was there, persistent, whispering in the back of my mind. I was Vaktaire. We were built for breaking things—chains, bones, spirits.
But there was no point.
Not yet.
The wound in my chest throbbed—a dull, persistent ache that reminded me I should already be dead.
I'd been dead, or close enough. In the throne room, when I'd lunged for Hewes with nothing but rage and desperation driving me forward. I'd known it was suicide. Known the guards would shoot. But if I could just get my hands around his throat, if I could just squeeze the life out of him before they put me down—
The blaster fire had punched through my chest like a fist of fire.
I remembered the impact. The way my legs had stopped working, folding beneath me like they belonged to someone else. The taste of copper flooding my mouth. The cold spreading through my limbs as blood pooled beneath me on the polished stone floor.
I'd looked up at Hewes from that spreading pool of my own blood, and I'd seen it in his eyes. Not fear. Not relief.
Disappointment.
Because a quick death in the throne room wasn't enough for him. Wasn't dramatic enough. Wasn'tpublicenough.
So he'd sent the healers.
Three of them, with the skill and tech reserved for people Hewes wanted kept alive. They'd worked in silence, their faces carefully blank, stitching flesh and bone back together with healing that burned like acid in my veins.
It had taken hours. I'd drifted in and out of consciousness, caught between the agony of healing and the deeper agony of knowingwhythey were healing me.
Not mercy.
Hewes wanted his spectacle. Wanted to parade me in front of the city, broken and chained, before he ended me. He wanted everyone to see what happened to those who defiedhim. A Vaktaire warrior, brought low. Executed like a common criminal in the square where everyone could watch.
Where Merrilee might have watched, if I hadn't gotten her out.
