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Ahead of me is Keres, a crescent of guards spread protectively around him like a living shield. At his feet is Nyssa, his hand gripping her hair as she kneels before him, her face smeared with dirt and blood. His gaze lifts, and a cold smile curves his lips as he sees me.
“Hello, sweet heart.”
Chapter 52
Aella
Keres curls his fingers possessively into Nyssa’s hair. I meet the soulless red of his eyes, fighting the urge to look down at her. The rage gathering beneath my skin is almost overwhelming, and whatever expression I might find on her face could be the thing that splits me open.
“I was wondering if you would make an appearance, your father believed you would,” Keres says. “I suppose he was right about some things.”
His grip tightens on Nyssa’s hair until she gasps.
“What do you want, Keres?” I force the words past clenched teeth.
“Everything,” he says. “I want your agony distilled, drop by drop, until nothing remains but the echo of who you were. I want to devour every fracture in your mind, memorize the pitch of your scream until it lingers in silence. And when you beg for death, I’ll deny it.”
I keep my expression blank, a shield against the hollowness his manic words try to carve into me. But deep inside me a storm stirs, unchecked and seeping outward.
“So, a trade, then? My life for hers.”
Keres smiles. “Done.”
“No!” Nyssa’s scream rings out, jagged and raw, splintering my resolve even as I refuse to flinch. “Aella, no, you can’t—don’t do this—”
I close my eyes as the urge to meet her gaze intensifies. Maybe then she would understand that this is exactly what I need to do. But I can’t. If I look at her now, I might break. And if I break, it’s over.
“Stormwind.”
My eyes snap open, finding Lyxander as he approaches. “Get her away from here.”
“Aella—”
“Get her out,” I snap, my voice cutting through the rising howl of the wind. “Now.”
Wordless, he turns to Nyssa. A guard obeys Keres’s gesture and drags Nyssa across the sand. She fights, kicking and shouting, her voice a desperate crescendo that fractures against the arena walls.
Her struggle pulls my gaze. One look is all I allow myself.
And it’s enough.
Threads of white streak through Nyssa’s curls, stark against the deep cinnamon of her hair. My breath catches as reality sharpens cruelly. Keres’s decaying touch has marked her, drained her, stolen pieces of her life force as easily as peeling bark from a tree.
Something within me snaps.
The wind rises, no longer confined to the muted chaos at ground level. It whips upward, carving into the sand and air in a wide, destructive spiral. I clench my fist, and a gust surges forward, lifting the guard and Nyssa abruptly. Momentum hurls them toward Lyxander’s outstretched arms. I turn away before I can see whether they land safely.
“I already warned you once not to touch her,” I hiss. “That was your only warning.”
And the storm detonates.
I draw deeper from my source than I ever have before, smashing through the bottom of the imagined vessel until the small channels open and more power floods through. The whirlwind tears into the sky, my fury given form. Pain sears through my back, my gums, my fingers, as if my skin is the only thing stopping me from exploding.
The wind screams, and amid the relentless roar, a voice—ancient and commanding—breaks through my mind.
Pull back, Daughter. Now!
I snarl, shaking off the intrusion in my mind as if the voice has physical weight. But I urge the storm to grow, and it expands with a sentient hunger, devouring the sand, metal fragments, and guards in its path.
