Page 139 of Burn of the Everflame

If the most incredible man I’d ever known had died, believing I found him pathetic.

Someone walked over me again, and the rocks around me shifted against my chest, forcing out a garbled, airless cry. A moment later, weights lifted from my face.

“There you are.”

My good eye fluttered, catching a glimpse of a woefully familiar face: Francis, Vance’s third-in-command. He held the point of his knife at my throat. “Scream for help and I kill you. Use magic and I kill you. Try to escape and I kill you. Understand?”

I wasn’t sure if I responded, given that I could no longer feel my body. Francis sheathed his blade and began dragging rocks off my chest. At the sudden release of pressure, violent shudders racked my body, and my throat began to retch. Seconds later, my mouth filled with the sweet, delicious drink of open air.

“Get up,” Francis said. “You have to come with me.”

“My mate,” I rasped. “Is he dead?”

“Who, the Prince?” Francis glanced over his shoulder at something I couldn’t see. “Looks like it.”

My body—my soul—went cold, but I refused to believe it. If he was gone, I would know. I would feel it.

Francis glanced down at my legs. Both were a bloody, mangled mess. “I thought your kind could heal.”

“It takes time,” I said, secretly prodding my Fortos magic to mend the less visible wounds. “A few hours, at least.”

He scowled. “Fine. I’ll carry you. But don’t get any ideas. Even you can’t get through his shield.”

I barely had time to notice the shimmering film wrapped around his body before the pain of being hauled to my feet turned my vision white. As the gryverns sensed my agony, the bonds crowding my head knotted into a jumbled ball of panic. I tried to focus on untangling the glowing thread that bound me to Luther. I had to find him and heal him before it was too late.

“My mate,” I said between gasps. “Please, I need to see him.”

Francis shuffled over the rain-slicked rubble, grunting under my weight. “Which part? Body’s in three pieces.”

A sob cracked out as I slumped against him. If Luther was truly gone, at least it made my next choice easy.

“Then take me to Ophiucae,” I insisted.

Francis stopped. “Why? Are you going to join him?”

“Yes,” I rushed out, praying for him to buy the lie. “I’ll join him—and Vance. I’ll swear my loyalty. Just take me to him.”

He looked me over, sharp and appraising. “You would turn on all your Descended friends? Betray your mother?” I nodded eagerly, and he let out a deep sigh as he eased me back to the ground. “They really believed that you were different. But you Descended never are.”

Suddenly, his dagger came swinging. My shield rose in useless defense, the godstone blade easily carving through it. I screwed my eyes shut and braced for death.

Then—a flash of light, glowing crimson through my eyelids.

A tingle, freezing cold and blisteringly hot.

And silence.

“What in the glaciers of hell?”

My eyes popped open. Francis stood over me, staring at his empty hands.

“You destroyed my blade,” he said, gaping. “How did you do that?”

My legs jerked as healing magic fused my broken spine. I dragged myself backward over the rocks to buy some distance. “I guess there’s more to us than you thought.”

He prowled forward. “Get back here. You’re not going anywh⁠—”

His eyes stopped on the ground nearby. Sorrow’s Edge had been thrown from me in the explosion. It lay wedged in the fallen debris, its handle peeking from the rocks.