Chapter 52 Lyra
Lyra
Hours, perhaps.
Or minutes. I have no idea.
I lose all sense of time as the line of Darkwielders slowly push my father’s forces back, inch by painful inch, Kaelen’s shield carrying the brunt of our defense.
Those that break through are skilled. Panting, I tear my luminth daggers free from the throat of a male Sharder, his body collapsing as I look around.
Darian fights only as much as he needs to.
He stays close to Kaelen, keeping those who target him away.
A growing line of gold trails behind them as we push forward, most of them still breathing.
Dark eyes stare up at the sky, voices moaning and screaming and begging for mercy against whatever nightmares Darian has wielded against them.
Some lay still, their mouths twisted in the same way as the Lightbringer soldier I saw in the Veilspire and their hearts stopped from sheer terror.
Nythen isn’t far away. A dozen feet, perhaps more.
His shadows writhe around him as his sword stabs into the ground, over and over again, catching shadows as they pass by.
When the soldiers stumble, hands flying to their chest, he follows with a direct strike to their necks, slicing a line across it before moving on to the next with lethal precision.
Our eyes meet as he looks around. But he only nods, turning away.
Eres. I can’t see him, and my throat grows tight as I spin, searching—
A body slams into me from the side. I hit the ground hard, the blow knocking air from my lungs as I roll back to a standing position, my blades already lifting—
Eldritch staggers. And I stare in horror at the long, glowing spear that protrudes from his stomach.
The Lightbringer rips it free, but my blades soar before my mind fully registers.
They slice through his neck, through the small space where his helmet ends and his breastplate begins, and I’m already moving before the soldier hits the ground.
I catch Eldritch as he stumbles back, his weight taking both of us to the ground. His breath comes in short, rapid gasps. “Damned—blind spot—”
“Don’t talk.” I use a blade to cut away the leather, to look at the wound, but his hand grips my wrist with surprising strength. “No time for that, witch.”
“But—” There’s so much blood. So much of it, staining the ground, my hands as I press into it, attempting to keep it inside. “I can do it.”
I healed Sera.
But that took hours. Hours that we don’t have.
He coughs, and a bloody spray trickles from his mouth. “Help them.”
I twist my head, searching. Eres’s back is to me feet away.
He’s battling with a Luminar, his staff shifting with every fluid movement.
It flickers between a spear, a sword, a short dagger, whatever he needs it to be as he ducks and weaves before forming a long knife that slices up, beneath the Lightbringer’s chin. My cry echoes. “Eres!”
He whirls around with his staff up, his eyes scanning before they land on me.
“Eres is coming,” I breathe. “He’ll know what to do.”
But then I look down.
Eres’s hands are already moving as his knees hit the ground beside me. I pull mine back, my fingers trembling as he presses down on the wound, but the blood no longer flows.
“Damn it, Eldritch.” His voice breaks.
Because his chest is no longer rising. His eyes stare up at the sky, and I sink back.
Eldritch. Maelira.
Eres cups my face. “Lyra. Come on.”
His face is wet, but he pulls me upright. “Stay close to me.”
I turn to look. More and more are breaking through. So much more gold. Everywhere I look, it swarms, drowning out the flashes of black.
Gold.
“Eres.” I grab his arm. “I have to go.”
That stops him. He stills, turning back to me. My eyes sweep the field behind him, taking in the waves that keep coming. I can’t see my father, but I know he’s there. Staying back, watching as his soldiers overwhelm us with sheer numbers.
He trusts the gold.
“I have to,” I repeat when he doesn’t say anything. “I have to try.”
And I promised him I wouldn’t go without talking to him first. His eyes close. “Lyra—”
“I have to try.” I slam my lips to his, tasting blood and dirt. His arm wraps around me, as if he’s holding me in place. “Wait for me.”
We both know that it’s unlikely I’m coming back. But he sucks in a breath against my lips, as if he’s breathing me in, before he pulls away. “Go.”
“Tell them—”
“You tell them.” His eyes blaze. “When you come back. Go, Lyra.”
Time is running out, and we both know that too.
I run.
Not for the line. Not toward the shield of shimmering, torn onyx as Kaelen keeps his protection in place, though it’s ragged around the edges as if the Lightbringers are carving it away, piece by piece.
I run for the walls. For Umbraxis.