Page 104 of On Brutal Thrones

He sees me on the ground, and the fight simply stops mattering.

The other Thorian follows, but his attention remains fixed on his opponent. His sword swings again, trying to drag the real Thorian back into the fight.

Relief hits me so hard it almost hurts. There you are. My Thorian.

I dig my hand into the sand.

When they reach me, I surge to my feet and fling the handful straight into Fake Thorian’s face.

He bellows, staggering backward and clawing at his eyes, while the real Thorian stares at me like he has no idea who I am anymore.

“It’s me,” I pant, already pulling my dagger free. Despite everything, a breathless laugh escapes me. “The fake me wasn’t nearly as nice. I learned that trick from her.”

Something shifts with me beside him.

I’m nowhere near as skilled with a dagger as Thorian is with a sword, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Before, he and his copy moved almost perfectly together, every strike anticipated, every defense matched. Now their rhythm is broken.

Maybe Fake Thorian can predict Thorian, but not both of us. Maybe Thorian fights differently with me beside him, constantly adjusting for where I am and what I’m doing. Whatever the reason, he seems to come alive again, no longer trapped in that endless pattern of strike and counterstrike.

Fake Thorian starts losing ground.

I dart in when I see an opening, slashing with my dagger and forcing him to turn toward me. That’s all the distraction Thorian needs.

He knocks the other man’s sword aside and drives his blade straight through his heart.

Fake Thorian shudders. For one awful instant, all I see is Thorian with a sword buried in his chest, and my stomach twists so violently I nearly gag.

Then the creature falls to his knees.

His skin turns translucent. His features ripple, Thorian’s face losing its shape before my eyes as his entire body collapses into the same strange, glassy water Fake Nyx was made of. It splashes across the sand before slowly soaking into the ground.

I stare at the puddle, my heart still hammering. Warm fingers close around mine, and I jerk before realizing who it is. Thorian.

My Thorian.

The relief that moves through me is so fierce I squeeze his hand before I can stop myself. After those horrible minutes of looking between two identical faces and not knowing which man I loved, the warmth of his hand feels more real than anything else around me.

He gives my fingers one hard squeeze, then tugs me toward the lake.

“Come on,” he says, his voice low.

I follow, still trying to catch my breath as another clang of metal rings somewhere ahead of us.

Thorian glances back at me.

“Think you can scream like that again?”

I can, and I do, though by the time we find Fenric, every swallow feels like dragging broken glass down my throat.

He and his copy are circling each other, their steel-tipped spears clashing as they thrust and parry. Neither can land a blow, but Fenric looks frighteningly close to losing control. His face is twisted with rage, his breaths coming in harsh, uneven bursts. Every movement is too forceful, as though he’s having to fight himself as hard as he’s fighting the thing in front of him.

Once again, I drop into the sand and scream.

The sound comes out ragged this time, barely resembling the cry I used for Thorian, but it works. One of the Fenrics turns instantly. He abandons the fight without hesitation and starts toward me, leaving his back completely exposed.

The other lunges after him, spear aimed at his back.

Thorian is ready.