Page 321 of Burn of the Everflame

The Arboros woman stretched her arms toward me. I flung out a desperate burst of magic, the strongest I could make it. It shot toward her in a sizzling orb, then dissolved into her shield.

I dove for Taran’s fallen sword. Roots broke through the rocky soil to coil around my wrists and trap them to the ground. My light magic burned them away, but they quickly regrew.

“Jean!” I screamed.

“Are you ready to beg yet?” he jeered. His shadows filled the air, but they didn’t come for me. They pummeled the soldiers in front of him, clearing a path to my brother and his mate.

Taran’s magic was strong, but Jean’s was stronger. With Zalaric’s help, their shield might be enough, but my shouts of warning went unheard in the clamor.

Shit.

I had nothing. No strength to break free. No magic to shield the brother I’d spent a lifetime suffering to protect. No way to save the mate I’d sacrificed so much for him to find. I was seconds from death myself, with no help in sight.

But I’d always had nothing. I’d lived through beatings and mockery since I was a toddler, and my title had put a target on my head since birth. My life had been at risk a thousand times, and no one had ever saved me. What threats I’d faced, I’d survived on my own.

I was Aemonn Corbois, Prince of Lumnos.

And I didn’t fucking beg.

The Arboros woman stood over me, fingers dancing as more roots roped around my neck. A gurgling sound rose from my throat, and my vision blurred.

When my father forbid me from learning to fight, I’d focused on the only other thing that would save me: illusions. I could only manage small, subtle things, like blending into walls and rugs. It wasn’t much, but it helped me hide when Father was at his worst.

Time to save ourselves again, I told my godhood.

Fight, it answered back.

I turned my head to see the blood-soaked flatlands, and I studied every crackle and rift. I thought of the artisans who’d made Lumnos a haven for beauty and art, and I prayed that some piece of their blood flowed through mine as I wove my meager magic into a tapestry of grey, empty rock.

The woman blinked. Her foggy eyes roamed, looking as if she was searching for something but couldn’t remember what she’d lost.

She blinked again. A wounded mortal staggered by, and her gaze jerked up. Her shoulders gave a stiff turn, and she lurched away to chase them.

I would have cheered for joy, if I could breathe. Her roots were receding back into the soil—and trying to take me with them, crushing my arms and neck against the stone.

The sounds of battle faded beneath a ripple of cracks that could have been either rocks or bones. My eyes began to close. My thoughts turned fleeting and frail. A distant, ancient voice seemed to whisper, calling me home. The only sensation that remained was a heat in my chest, my lungs burning for air they couldn’t find.

Burning.

Burning.

“Burn,” I mouthed.

Burn, my godhood answered.

The darkness exploded with pale blue light as warmth flushed across my skin. My wrists broke free, and I clutched at my throat as air flooded my lungs. I rolled to my side and drank it in long, rasping gulps. In my wobbling vision, I saw my wrists coated in ash and the glint of a sword laying several feet away.

Taran.

I dragged myself across the ground and closed my hand around it. Somehow, I made it to my feet, though I was struggling not to collapse. My last burst of magic had drained my godhood dry, so I had no shield to raise.

But Taran was out there.

My fucking brother was out there.

And if Jean got to Zalaric, Taran would either die trying to save him, or he’d die trying to avenge him.

So I staggered through the killing field, violence swarming in blurs, and I made a promise to the Blessed Mother that if she’d lead me to Jean, I’d forgive her for never answering my prayers all those years ago.