Page 138 of On Brutal Thrones

I scramble toward them, coughing through the dust. “Everyone okay?”

Fenric groans.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Talon shoves himself onto his knees. “Your standards have gotten alarmingly low.”

A breathless laugh escapes me before another crack splits the mountain, and none of us needs Thorian to tell us to move.

We climb.

By the time we reach the next ledge, my arms are trembling so badly I can barely pull myself over. Talon and Fenric boost Thorian up first. He turns immediately, catches my forearm, and hauls me onto solid ground.

I collapse onto my knees, breathing hard. Then I see movement. Three figures step out from behind formations of black rock. Apparently, we’d caught up with the fucking warlocks.

The prickle of magic hits my skin.

“Warlocks!”

Fenric grabs me and yanks me sideways just as green magic streaks through the place where I was kneeling. It strikes the rock behind us and explodes in a shower of sparks.

Thorian and Talon are already moving. Their golden swords flash as they charge. Three of them. Four of us. And the Spire is right above us.

There’s no more running from this.

“I’m okay!” I shout when Fenric hesitates beside me.

Another spell flashes past Thorian. He twists away from it, but Magnus is already there, golden sword in hand. Their blades collide with a metallic shriek.

Fenric looks at me.

“Go!” I order.

That’s all it takes.

He draws his spear and launches himself into the fight.

Magic erupts across the ledge. Red, purple, green, white. The flashes are so bright against the storm-dark sky that my eyes struggle to adjust. Steel rings against gold. Boots scrape over stone. Someone grunts in pain.

I draw my dagger as Antone sends a blast toward Talon. Talon dives beneath it, comes up inside the warlock’s guard, and swings. His sword cuts clean through Antone’s forearm, and the severed hand hits the rock still clutching its weapon.

Antone screams. Halwin turns toward him, white healing magic already gathering around his hands.

I reach for the mountain. There’s almost no life beneath us, but almost is enough. Farther down the slope, I find the roots of multiple trees clinging stubbornly to the mountain. I grab hold of them with my magic and pull.

The effort sends pain stabbing behind my eyes.

“Come on.”

The roots answer. They tear through cracks in the black stone and explode onto the ledge, wrapping around Halwin’s arms and pinning them against his sides before he can reach Antone. He shouts and fights them, but I simply tighten my hold.

Magnus turns, and his ruined gaze locks on me. “It’s you.”

Lightning flashes overhead, illuminating what’s left of his face. His skin is puckered and uneven, melted into ridges around exposed eyes. Green pus shines in the deeper wounds.

“Where’s your sister?” he asks, his ruined mouth twisting into a smile. “Still waiting to find out what it’s like to ride my cock?”

Once, the sight of him might have made me look away. Now all I can think about is Lyra. This man wants my sister. He wants to see all of us dead.