42. Seraphina
42
SERAPHINA
T he explosion rips through the hall like a beast unleashed.
The walls shudder. The chandeliers swing wildly. The wooden beams above groan, dust and debris raining from the ceiling as the world splits apart.
I barely have time to react before the second blast detonates, fire and smoke rolling through the air in a thick, suffocating wave.
Screams erupt.
Guards stumble, some thrown back by the sheer force, others engulfed in flame.
And in the chaos, Rylan moves. A blur of black steel and wrath. The moment Nhilian’s men lunge for me, Rylan’s blade is already carving through the first throat.
Blood sprays across the table, staining the untouched plates of fine elven cuisine, pooling over the goblets of deep red wine.
The next soldier barely lifts his sword before Rylan buries his dagger in his ribs, twisting with a vicious snap.
Nhilian is yelling something—I can’t hear him over the roar of flames, over the ringing in my ears.
I don’t wait for Rylan.
I rip my chains forward, the iron still heavy around my wrists, but I use the weight as leverage.
Swinging the first length of chain, I catch a guard across the face—the crunch of breaking bone is almost satisfying.
I grab his fallen dagger before he can even hit the ground.
Move.
The instinct roars through me, louder than the detonations.
Rylan shouts my name, his voice cutting through the smoke.
I pivot, just as a blade slices for my throat.
I drop low, fast, the edge of the steel singing past my ear.
I roll, coming up behind my attacker, and slam my stolen dagger into the back of his knee.
A howl of agony.
A stumble.
I grab his sword before he even realizes he’s lost it, swinging it wide—cutting through his throat in a clean arc.
Rylan is suddenly at my side, gripping my wrist.
“Come.”
The room is already collapsing, fire licking up the walls.
Another explosion detonates from somewhere deeper in the castle.
Rylan—the bastard planned this.
Of course he did.
Of course he came prepared.
We sprint through the corridors, shadows chasing us, the clash of steel ringing through the air.
We don’t run blindly.
Rylan knows exactly where he’s going.
Through the bodies, the fire, the ruin.
We carve a path through Nhilian’s men, dodging their desperate, clumsy attacks.
They’re panicked.
Disoriented.
They clearly weren’t expecting war to land inside their own walls.
I keep close to Rylan, letting him cut through the worst of it, my own blade a second shadow to his.
One guard manages to catch my side with a shallow cut, but I don’t feel it yet.
The adrenaline is too thick in my blood.
Another lunges.
I duck.
Drive my dagger up into his gut.
Rylan grips my arm, pulling me forward, urging me to keep moving.
We burst through the back entrance just as another explosion detonates behind us.
The force throws us forward.
I hit the ground hard.
The wind rushes from my lungs in a violent gasp.
Rylan hauls me up before I can even register the pain.
I stumble, dizzy, lightheaded?—
And then I feel it.
A wet warmth spreading down my side.
I look down.
And see the blood.
Dark, soaking through my tunic, seeping from a deep wound near my ribs.
I hold onto it, my hand shaky and eyes unfocused.
Not good.
Rylan turns in time to watch me falter.
His face darkens.
He grabs my chin, forcing my gaze up.
His emerald eyes are burning, furious, frantic.
"Stay with me," he growls.
I try to nod.
I think I do.
But my vision is already going hazy.
The wound is worse than I thought.
I sway.
His grip tightens.
His expression shifts, and for a split second, something cracks beneath all that rage. He scoops me into his arms before I can protest.
I try to fight, try to insist that I can still walk, but my body betrays me. Too much blood. Too much pain.
Rylan mutters a curse under his breath, his hold tightening as he moves. “I should kill you for getting yourself cut,” he snarls.
I manage a weak smirk. "Wouldn't be much fun... if I didn't make you work for it."
His jaw clenches. "You’re not dying."
He says it like a command.
Like he can will it into existence.
Like he can defy fate itself.