“Listen—” she tried again.
“You want me to wait until after the king has helped you,” Oskaren interrupted. Whatever pain or anger Thia had witnessed was replaced with a terrifying cold. Her dark eyes were empty as they bore into Thia’s, sending her heart into her throat.
“Yes,” she admitted, noting the hand Oskaren placed on the pommel of her sword. The girl’s posture was casual, but tense.
“You’re a fool, Faelyn. He will kill us all.”
She crossed her arms, refusing to be cowed. “If you believe that, why come?”
Oskaren stood, towering over her. Thia swallowed thickly.
But when the girl made no other move, Thia stood too. “You were sad for a moment there. Admit it.”
Oskaren’s hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
Oskaren’s gaze flicked to Thia’s lips. She stepped closer, and Thia’s breath hitched. “Stop looking for what we both know is gone.” Sensing her advantage, she took another step, pressing Thia back into the wall, her arm rising to trap her there. So close, Thia could smell her, a hint of salt and something nutty. “I told you, I have nothing. Death means nothing to me.” Ice bloomed across her features. “Youmean nothing to me. I only hope I can stab the Tyrant through the heart before he stops what’s left of mine.”
“Hope is a feeling,” Thia murmured.
Oskaren’s brow lifted. “What?”
Thia tipped her chin. She was barely up to the young woman’s shoulders, but with Oskaren leaning down there were mere inches between them. “Hope is a feeling. You can hide from it. You can pretend nothing hurts you. But I’ve seen your heart, Oskaren Alinac. It might be broken, but it still beats.”
With that, she ducked around Oskaren and slid back into her bedroll before she had to suffer another word.
They departed before dawn, and the day passed uneventfully, save for their notably dwindling food supply. Oskaren stayed in the lead, her steps lengthening the closer they got to their destination. Though she insisted the lightning flash was necessary to guide them, Thia couldn’t help but wonder if the girl knew the route better than she let on.
Dess, in turn, stayed close to Thia’s side, seeming content to let his adoptive sister mark the path, perhaps grateful for the reprieve from her company. He kept up a steady stream of inconsequential chatter as they walked, which Thia found both endearing and exhausting. Thran took up the rear, always in sight, but too far back to join in the discussion. He noted Thia’s periodic glances with a wave that seemed to say, “I’m coming,” and a nod that was more companionable than she knew what to do with.
They spent the next night in what appeared to be a fishing hut, a wooden structure with a single room nestled just beside a creek. The shelter reeked and barely fit the four of them, but the water provided a much-needed bath. Thia nearly sang with delight as the sweat, dirt, and fear of the mountain washed away. She felt better than she had in days, at least until she cut her thumb on the branch she grabbed to help her clamber out of the stream. Wincing, she retrieved her waterskin and poured a splash over the wound, which was thankfully shallow, if messy.
The following morning, as she realized the end of their journey was nigh, she became anxious for an entirely new reason. Cyning was nearly upon them, and she still had no idea how she was going to go about actually meeting the king without claiming to be the Storm Crow. She recalled the tyranny of his slithering voice and wrapped her arms around herself as she walked. Walls appeared on the horizon too quickly.
At this distance, Cyning was a blur of gray, a single black tower dominating the horizon above it. A narrow, spiraling concoction of obsidian, it sparkled dangerously in the sunlight, rugged turrets stabbing the sky like teeth.
“Is that—”
“The Lightning Tower,” Dess said, uneasily.
Lost in staring at it, Thia didn’t see the witch until she dropped down out of the sky, and the ground in front of her exploded.
Stalks of long grass burst into flame as clods of dirt shot into the air. The force of the blast knocked Thia off her feet, and she went sprawling backwards, slamming into the earth with a painful thud. White-hot pain lanced through her left wrist as she felt something break on impact. She screamed, and shouts sounded in response, but they were soon lost in the wind as a tornado wrapped around her. And then she was staring into a pair of glowing green eyes.
Xercae.
Fangs sprouted from the witch’s crusted mouth. She hissed, lowering her face to Thia’s throat, and stringy white hair fell over her face like a curtain.
Thia struggled. The wind disappeared, but the witch was surprisingly heavy, pinning her to the ground. Thia bucked her hips, clawing at the witch’s gray arms with her nails, but it was no use.
Fangs rested against her neck, cold and sharp. Her skin split at the contact, two small beads of blood cascading down toward her spine. Thia froze, fear taking over. How long would it take for the witch to drain her blood? Would she become Unfleshed as the poison spread, or after, when she was entirely sucked dry? Her breaths came in shallow gasps, and she willed herself to move. Instead, she trembled. The witch’s fangs sank in a little deeper.
Then there was a guttural cry, and Xercae’s weight was thrown off of her.
Oskaren crouched at Thia’s feet, spinning her back as a barrage of fire suddenly tumbled toward them. The girl raised a shield—the one Lord Sagan had given her, Thia realized, as the fire struck it with the force of a battering ram. Oskaren’s shoulders shook under the onslaught, and she was barreled back, nearly crumpling onto Thia before she was able to get a foothold by falling to her knees.
Thia forced herself into a crouch and threw herself against Oskaren, their combined weight holding the shield. She expected heat to surround her, but the fire was cold and sparkled like ice. In front of her, Oskaren’s torso was broad and warm, as much a shield as the one the girl held.
