36. Chapter 36 #2
“I want you to die.”
Essandra’s eyes met Cyrus’s, and they teared. Her lips mouthed a silent spell. He didn’t need to hear it to know what it was.
The spell to break the tether.
She hadn’t broken it when he’d returned the day before, and there was only one reason she’d be breaking it right now—to protect him. She knew she was going to die.
“No!” Cyrus shouted. “Essandra!”
Her lip trembled.
“No!” Cyrus pushed through the pain, grabbing his sword, and staggered back to his feet. But Soroya only hit him with another burst of power, this one somehow even harder than the first. It flung him backward.
She hit him with another blow, then another. His head cracked against stone. Every bone in his body felt like it was breaking.
“Cyrus!” Essandra screamed.
More of his men came charging into the throne room, but Soroya flicked her wrist, obliterating the massive grand columns and sending the ceiling above them crashing to the ground. Sunlight poured through the plumes of dust and debris from above.
“I am not a silly man with a sword,” she spat at Cyrus. “I am Soroya Fey, descendant of the Nocturn, high witch of the Moon Coven, and scepter of the Spirit.”
Cyrus tried to push himself up, but his broken arm buckled underneath him. Something trickled down the back of his neck from his head. Blood.
“Sabine is mine,” Soroya said. “Her life is mine, and I’ve come to claim it.”
“Don’t hurt him,” Essandra begged again.
“Oh, I’m definitely going to hurt him.”
Witch fire flamed in Soroya’s hand, and she leveled her eyes back on Cyrus. The flame grew brighter.
He braced for the burn.
Just then, a figure moved in front of him. A man with blades drawn. His head and face were covered, but Cyrus knew immediately who it was.
Orion.
Soroya shifted back for a moment. Her eyes narrowed. “Another assassin? I thought I’d gotten all of you. You should have escaped while you had the chance.”
Orion backed up slowly, keeping himself firmly between Cyrus and the witch. “No fun in that,” he said. His body coiled, ready to fight. “I’m the only one allowed to kill this man. If you want him, you’re going to have to go through me.”
Soroya’s eyes flashed, then she smiled. “I’ve never had anyone ask before.” She cast Essandra aside, pinning her against the wall with the invisible force. Then she balled witch fire in her hand again.
“Orion!” Cyrus warned.
The flame tore through the air, but Orion was faster. He moved with lethal grace, twisting out of the way, while in a single motion, he flung a handful of bladed darts at the witch.
Soroya whipped up her hand and shielded herself merely with air, but one of the witches beside her stumbled and sank to the floor, hit. Soroya’s face twisted as she realized. Her eyes blazed back on Orion.
“That was a foolish thing to do,” she hissed.
She flicked her wrist, and the partially collapsed ceiling cracked even more.
Orion spun and darted again, just as a thunder of stone fell from above him.
He narrowly escaped from underneath. Another plume of dust and debris flooded the hall, blinding them all for a moment.
Orion scrambled to Cyrus. “Get Essandra out of here!” he snapped as he pulled Cyrus up. “My ship is set to sail. Get to the harbor and go!”
Pain racked his body, and Cyrus wasn’t sure his legs would hold him, but he forced himself forward. He had to get to Essandra.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Orion goaded Soroya as he stepped out of the dust. “I have to admit, for someone touting so much power, I was expecting something more… extraordinary.”
Soroya’s eyes found him, and her mouth popped with a small scoff. “More extraordinary?”
Orion’s eyes traveled over the broken throne room, and he shrugged. “I’ve just seen this all before.”
Cyrus skirted the edge of the throne room through the haze. Or maybe there was no haze, maybe it was his own eyes clouding.
Soroya laughed at Orion’s challenge. The stained-glass windows high above lining the throne room shattered, raining down shards of glass. Orion darted again. Away from Cyrus, away from Essandra. The destruction followed him. So did Soroya’s attention.
Cyrus pushed himself faster. He could see Essandra fighting against the force that still pinned her against the wall. He was almost to her.
Then, one of Soroya’s witches called out.
She shouted in foreign words, but Cyrus knew exactly what she’d said—she’d revealed him.
And Soroya’s wave of destruction shifted after him.
Another blow of power struck him, and another, crashing him against the remains of a marble column with a force that broke bone and knocked the wind from his lungs. He crumpled to the ground.
Pain coursed through him—excruciating pain—but he had no breath to cry out.
He rolled to his side, struggling for air.
Suffocating. Both Orion and Essandra yelled his name.
His lungs finally filled, but it wasn’t the relief he needed.
With each inhale, each pulse of his heart, came a deep pain in his chest. His ribs cracked as he moved. Each breath was war.
“Fool,” Soroya hissed.
Cyrus sucked in another breath, but it was wet and raspy. He couldn’t escape the feeling of drowning.
Soroya shaped a ball of fire in her hand again, stalking toward him. “Did you really think you could—”
Her words cut with a gasp, and she whirled. A small throwing dagger protruded from the back of her shoulder.
She ripped it out. “You’ll die for that,” she seethed at Orion, and she hurled the fire in her palm at him.
Orion careened out of the way again, but as he pulled two more blades to throw, he froze.
Soroya stretched her arm out and, with her invisible force, dragged him toward her. He flailed, his knives still in hand.
“Tell me,” she called to him. “Is this extraordinary enough for you?”
She lifted him into the air with nothing but her power.
His face slacked and his eyes widened. He twisted against the force that held him.
Then his eyes jumped wildly to the blades in his hands—the blades that now turned inward toward his own body.
He struggled violently, but he couldn’t stop them. The knives closed slowly in toward him.
“Orion!” Cyrus choked out.
Orion struggled, more frantic now, as the blades closed in on his chest.
Essandra’s voice pleaded for him.
The assassin struggled more. The tips of the blades reached his body. He fought with everything he had. But he didn’t call out, he didn’t beg for mercy.
Cyrus tried to crawl toward him.
Orion’s eyes met his as the blades slowly pierced him.
A cry burst from Cyrus. “No!”
The knives sank deeper.
Orion’s struggle lessened. Slowly, he stilled.
Slowly, he died.
His gray eyes stayed locked on Cyrus until the life ran out of them.
Then Soroya dropped his body to the floor.
Cyrus tried to call out to Orion, but that only pulled a cough from the wreck of his lungs. Blood poured from his mouth, hot and thick with foam.
Soroya’s gaze flicked to him, to his blood spattered on the stone in front of him. Her eyes grew wide before flashing back to Essandra. “You found yourself a seer.” She tilted her head ever so slightly. “Did you use his blood?”
She stalked back to Essandra and curled her hand around her throat again. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t be enough to save you.”
He tried to stand again, but more pain erupted inside him—scraping, clawing, biting, dropping him back to the floor. He groaned in agony, then heaved another burst of blood from his lungs.
“No!” Essandra cried. She begged Soroya. “Please don’t kill him.”
But already, Cyrus felt the life in him fading.
“It’s too late, darling,” Soroya said. “He’s already dying.”
He could barely move now.
Soroya grabbed Essandra again. “This next part needs an audience.” And she dragged her from the room.
Cyrus lay broken and bleeding. Orion’s dead eyes stared back at him. But Cyrus could do nothing. Even his silent cry drew an ungodly pain.
From outside, the earth shook again with the power of Soroya’s destruction. She wasn’t just bringing down the palace, she was bringing down his whole kingdom. And there was nothing he could do to stop her.
Then he heard Essandra scream.
A piercing, guttural scream.
That scream tore something open.
A storm roared through him—feral and vicious—every muscle, every fiber of his being. It filled him with fire. And he moved. He didn’t feel his body, only the pulse of rage. He rose not by strength but by will.
The ground shook again with Soroya’s thunder, nearly dropping him, but he forced himself through the rubble of the throne room.
Through the destroyed main hall that now had only open sky.
Through the fractured palace doors and into the courtyard.
Through the gates of the palace that had been ripped from their hinges.
In the center of the mainway that ran from the palace through the capital, Soroya held Essandra in the air. The wind surged around them. Bodies lay crumpled on the ground—two witches from Essandra’s coven. Dead.
People were running. Some were frozen in horror. Palace guards swept toward them with their swords drawn, but they were thrown back.
“I gave you everything,” Soroya seethed at Essandra. “You were nothing when I took you in. Now you’ll die like nothing. And nothing is all you’ll ever be.”
No.
No , she didn’t get to decide that.
Cyrus pushed himself forward. Each step was war. His ribs grated, his lungs burned.
Soroya caught him in the corner of her eye, and she turned. Her eyes widened slightly before they narrowed. “You,” she hissed. “Kill him,” she told her witches.
They started toward him, and Cyrus pulled the dagger from the belt around his waist. One of the witches laughed. She balled a flame in each of her hands.
“You bring a knife to a fire fight,” she jeered.
His breaths were raw and ragged. He waited, although he barely had the strength to keep standing.
As the witches stalked toward him, he brought up his hand, his arm outstretched. He opened his fingers, letting the dagger lay flat across his palm.
The witch’s brow quirked. “Giving up so soon?” she asked with a cruel smile.
He didn’t answer her. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter.
She shifted her eyes to the dagger.
To the blade.
To the crack that now snaked up the metal.
She didn’t even have time to react as it shattered, hurling its hundreds of sharp fragments into the three witches. Into their faces. Into their throats.
They screamed as they fell back, writhing on the ground. The fragments buried themselves deeper. Through flesh. Through bone. Cyrus willed them even deeper, until the witches stilled.
Soroya’s eyes flashed darker. “You’ve bonded your power.” She looked at Essandra. “It won’t be enough.” She balled her fist, then spread her fingers wide.
He braced for the blow.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, there was a ripping, a tearing from his body, and his legs buckled as his strength left him. Essandra had warned him. Soroya couldn’t use the power, but she could take it. She could strip him of everything he had to fight.
Cyrus gritted his teeth. He tried to pull it back, tried to resist. But there was nothing he could do. She was too strong.
Then he realized—
His power wasn’t a bucket to be emptied. It was a river from the Aether. A river of power.
Unlimited power.
Cyrus opened himself, drawing from the Aether as quickly as she ripped it from him. More power he drew. And more.
He used it to straighten. More power he pulled from the Aether. Blood trickled from his nose, but he opened himself more.
More power still, he pulled.
Soroya hissed as she saw her attempts to drain him failing. She dropped Essandra and surged toward him.
He moved to meet her.
The ground split, and jagged rock surged upward to stop him, but Soroya wasn’t the only one with access to a geomancer.
Cyrus pulled from the bloodline bond—his bond with Essandra, his bond with her coven.
He broke through the rock with bursts of his own power, hurling pieces back at Soroya with a force that could crumble a stronghold. The witch shielded herself.
He pulled more from the Aether, melding it with the power of Essandra’s coven. His coven. He let his rage fuel him—the rage that came from this woman daring to think she could take Essandra from him.
Cyrus released a burst of fury. The force billowed out from around him. He’d bring his whole kingdom to the ground if he had to. Every last stone.
Soroya stumbled backward with a jolt. Her magic flared, wild and chaotic. And then he saw it in her eyes—fear.
She desperately clawed the power from him, but she couldn’t take it fast enough. The heavens cracked. Not with thunder. With power. Birds fell from the sky.
Cyrus pulled even more power, letting it build. He would have no mercy. He would destroy this woman.
He broke the ground beneath her feet.
“Stop!” Soroya cried. “That’s enough!”
But it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough. The hand that she’d wrapped around Essandra’s throat cracked as it distorted, and she screamed.
But he wasn’t finished. He reached for her.
In one last frenzied defense, Soroya cast flame across his palms and up his arms. He ignored the burn and clasped her face in his blistering hands.
“What are you ?” she whispered in horror.
“Vengeance,” he said. And he broke her. Her screams filled the air. Crack after crack, scream upon scream.
Blood pulsed from her nose and mouth and out her ears.
She fought—clawing, screeching curses in a language as old as the earth. She slammed power into him, tearing muscle and tendon.
But he would not let go .
When her screams had died, when all life had left her, he dropped her body to the ground, just as she’d done with Orion.
Cyrus didn’t have the strength to hold himself any longer, and he buckled to the ground. He sucked in another rattled breath as his eyes searched for Essandra.
She lay a few paces away, weakly pushing herself up. When she saw him, she struggled to her feet.
With his last bit of strength, he pulled himself across the ground toward her. She stumbled to him, dropping down and throwing her arms around him. He buried his head into her neck as he held her tightly.
It didn’t matter that everything in his body rived with pain. It didn’t matter that he was dying. Nothing else mattered. Only her.