CHAPTER 91 Wren
CHAPTER 91
Wren
‘It has been decades since the magical might of the five kingdoms has been felt across the midrealms’
– The Midrealms Chronicles
W HEN W REN CAME to, she saw that her wound was gone. Red stained her skin, but there was no mark, no blemish where a ragged slash had been only moments before. Sticky with blood, a strange pain still lingering, Wren looked up at Torj in wonder.
But she didn’t recognize the Warsword before her.
There was no warmth or love in that stormy sea-blue gaze.
Only cold, unflinching iron.
She reached for him, and he stepped away.
A hollowness yawned wide inside her, a chasm that could not be filled. It left her breathless, her hands trembling. Something deep in her chest had fractured, the ache in its wake like the pulse of a phantom limb.
With utter bedlam around her, and her front still wet and warm with blood, Wren sought Torj again, but he would not meet her eyes. That chasm within unfurled wider, deeper, until she could barely contain the short, shallow gasps that escaped her.
‘What happened?’ she whispered.
‘Wren!’ Dessa shouted from a few feet away. ‘Wren, we need you!’
It was Thea who helped Wren to her feet. The hall spun as she stood. The enemy’s leader was nowhere in sight, nor were the remains of his forces that weren’t dead on the ground with their own.
‘What happened?’ Wren croaked at her sister.
‘They used the smoke again and retreated,’ Thea explained. ‘But they’ve taken Queen Reyna—’
‘Wren!’ Dessa cried out. ‘Hurry!’
Wren leaned on Thea as she left Torj behind, hobbling to Dessa’s side, where Zavier was keeled over, clutching his abdomen.
‘He said he wasn’t hurt,’ Dessa blurted. ‘He said it was just a scratch, but—’
Wren’s gaze fell to the wound that was already festering at Zavier’s stomach, blood pulsing from a thin slice there. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she crouched beside her teammate.
‘Which weapon?’ she asked him, scanning the various blades scattered across the floor.
With a ragged gasp, Zavier pointed.
A prickle of unease crept up Wren’s spine as she picked up the sword in question, noting the gleam of chemicals on the steel. Swallowing, she looked from the blade to Zavier, who was sweating profusely, doubled over in pain.
‘This is treated with the enemy’s alchemy...It only affects those with magical blood.’ She knelt beside Zavier once more. The wound was shallow, superficial, and yet...
Realization slammed into Wren, sending a wave of shock coursing through her body.
Zavier looked up at her, but said nothing, a vein pulsing in his neck.
‘You’re a royal,’ she murmured. ‘This alchemy wouldn’t affect you otherwise...Not like this. That was your magic back there...’
She reached for her belt, for the vial she had meant to give Farissa.
‘I’ve only tested this on myself,’ she explained. ‘There’s every chance it won’t work—’
‘Just do it.’ Zavier was panting in pain as he eyed the tiny glass bottle in her hand. His body convulsed and he gave a stifled cry as the wound at his gut opened further.
Wren hesitated over the vial, just for a second.
If she was wrong, it could kill him.
If she was right and didn’t use it, he would die anyway.
Zavier seized, white spittle foaming at his mouth, his eyes rolling back into his head.
Wren threw herself into action. She tipped the vial to his lips, pouring the clear liquid into his mouth, watching his throat bob as he swallowed. Zavier’s whole body convulsed in a series of violent fits.
Wren’s blood went cold. With Dessa’s help, she held him down, placing someone’s cloak under his head.
He stopped moving.
And around them, the hall fell silent.
Wren held her breath. The tonic was untested, save for herself...There were a million factors that could change the results, that could hinder the remedy, that could make things worse ...But what was worse than dead?
A lot of things , she thought grimly, checking Zavier’s pulse. It was so faint she could hardly feel it.
He was dying. And there was no knowing if she’d been the one to push him across the line into the underworld.
All paths lead to the underworld, novices...
‘Wren...’ Dessa whispered, her voice laced with terror. ‘What have you done?’
‘I—’
Suddenly, Zavier shot up with a ragged gasp for air, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He clutched his stomach, which was still wet with blood, and looked around wildly until his gaze locked with Wren’s.
‘What the...’ he wheezed, perspiration still beading at his brow, his mouth agape in shock.
Wren became increasingly aware of all the eyes boring into her back, of the masters staring at the trio huddled on the floor.
But her attention didn’t leave Zavier. ‘ Who are you? ’ she demanded.
Her teammate fought to catch his breath, gulping at the air as though it couldn’t fill his lungs fast enough.
Finally, he levelled her with a stare. ‘Zavier Terling, Highness. Prince of Naarva.’
A ripple of shock passed over the hall. But Wren stared back as the pieces fell into place. The flicker of power she’d felt during breakfast in the great hall. His vast knowledge of the Kingdom of Gardens and lifelore. His resentment towards her from the start...
‘Zavier Terling...’ she murmured, feeling his magic unfurl from him as the haze of pain left his eyes.
He offered a sly smile. ‘Pleased to officially make your acquaintance, Poisoner.’