Chapter 16 Leora
LEORA
The sound of the world ending is akin to a grinding, tectonic roar that vibrates in the hollows of my teeth.
Dust rains down from the vaulted ceiling, a gray snow of pulverized stone and ancient mortar. The black altar lurches, throwing us sideways. The force of the blast knocks me flat against the cold flagstones.
"Imas!" I cry out, but the name is lost in the cacophony.
He is on his knees beside me, his face streaked with the bloody tears of his grief. The explosion seems to shatter the trance of his despair. His head snaps up, violet eyes widening not with the calculated assessment of a Lord, but with the raw, animal panic of prey realizing the trap has sprung.
Above us, the darkness shifts. A groan of stressing metal echoes through the chamber, followed by a sharp, cracking sound like a breaking spine.
A massive section of the stone archway directly above us gives way.
Imas moves.
He does not summon a shield of shadow. He does not chant a word of power. The Serpent is gone, and with Him, the effortless protection of a god.
Imas uses the only thing he has left. He throws his body over mine.
It is a violent, clumsy collision. He slams into me, his weight crushing the air from my body, pressing me flat against the floor. His arms wrap around my head, burying my face in the heavy velvet of his ceremonial robes.
CRASH.
The impact shakes the bedrock. I feel the floor shudder beneath us. A wave of debris hammers into Imas’s back. He grunts—a wet, guttural sound of pain that vibrates against my chest.
Dust billows around us, choking and thick, tasting of sulfur and dry rot.
For a heartbeat, there is only the ringing in my ears and the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing against my neck.
He is heavy. Dead weight.
"Imas?" I wheeze, shoving at his chest.
He pushes himself up. His movement is stiff, pained. He coughs, spitting red onto the black stone next to my head.
I look at him. A jagged tear has opened in the shoulder of his robe. Beneath the ruined fabric, the charcoal skin is flayed open, weeping dark blood where a shard of granite sliced him. If he hadn't covered me, that stone would have crushed my skull.
He doesn't look at the wound. He looks at the ceiling, his eyes scanning the gloom with frantic intensity.
"Malek," he rasps. The name is a curse. "He couldn’t wait."
He grabs my arm, his grip slick with his own blood but iron-hard.
"Get up," he says, his voice tight with a fear I have never heard from him. "We have to move. The wards are broken. The foundation is compromised."
I scramble to my feet, my legs rubbery. The floor is littered with debris. The air is thick with a new scent—not just dust, but a sharp, acidic tang that burns the inside of my nose.
"Warrior magic," Imas hisses, reading the scent. "He brought siege breakers."
He drags me away from the altar, toward the heavy iron door.
A second tremor rocks the chamber.
"Look out!"
He yanks me backward, spinning me against his chest just as a heavy iron brazier tears loose from its chains. It crashes into the floor exactly where I had been standing a second ago, scattering burning coals across the flagstones. Sparks fly like angry hornets.
I bury my face in his tunic, shaking. He holds me tight, one hand cupping the back of my head, pressing me into the safety of his body. Through the thin fabric, I can feel his heart. It is racing, a frantic, bird-like rhythm that betrays the icy mask of his face.
And I feel him.
The connection is wide open. The dam is gone. I feel his pain—the stinging fire in his shoulder, the bruising ache in his back. But beneath the agony, there is a terror so profound it nearly brings me to my knees.
He is not afraid of dying.
He is afraid of failing me.
I cannot protect her, his mind screams, a silent, frantic litany. I am hollow. I am nothing. They will break her.
He pulls back, holding me at arm's length. His eyes search mine, wild and desperate.
"Listen to me," he commands, giving me a small shake. "My magic is gone. Do you understand? I cannot veil us. I cannot flay their minds. I am just a man with a target on his back."
"I know," I whisper.
"Malek is here to kill me," he says, the words rapid-fire. "But he will want you. He saw you at the dinner. He knows you are the key. If he takes you..." A shudder rips through him. "He serves The Warrior. He does not dissect, Leora. He conquers. He will use you until you are dust."
He turns away from me, striding toward the far wall where a collection of ceremonial weapons hangs on display. He ignores the jeweled scepters and the ritual daggers. He reaches for a longsword—a heavy, brutal piece of steel with a simple leather grip.
He pulls it from the rack. The metal sings, a sharp, clear note in the dusty air.
It looks wrong in his hand. Imas is a creature of the Aether, a weaver of shadows and pain. Seeing him hold a physical weapon is like seeing a bird trying to swim. It is desperate. It is unnatural.
He tests the weight of it, grimacing as the movement pulls at his torn shoulder. He turns back to me. The sword hangs at his side, a heavy, useless bar of metal against the might of a Sorcerer Lord.
"Stay behind me," he says. His voice is low, stripped of all arrogance. It is just a statement of fact. "Stay in my shadow. If I fall... if they cut me down..."
He swallows hard, his throat working. He looks at the door, then back at me. The violet of his eyes is dim, the supernatural glow extinguished, leaving them dark and painfully human.
"Run," he whispers. "Do not try to save me. Do not try to help. You run to the surface, you steal a horse, and you ride for the Emberforge. The Emberforge is a place of equality. Go there. Do not look back."
I stare at him. The air in my lungs turns to glass.
He meant to kill me five minutes ago. He stood over me with a knife, weeping because he thought my death would buy back his soul.
And now, he is standing between me and an army, holding a piece of steel he barely knows how to use, preparing to die so I might live.
"Imas," I breathe.
I reach out. I want to touch him. I want to push a wave of strength into him, to fill the hollow places where The Serpent used to be.
But before my fingers can graze his sleeve, the iron door at the top of the stairs explodes inward.
It bursts. The heavy hinges shriek and snap, the metal buckling under a massive, kinetic impact.
Imas spins, shoving me behind him. He raises the sword, his stance wide, placing his body as a barrier between me and the threat.
Dust billows into the room from the stairwell.
A figure stumbles through the haze.
It is not Malek.
It is Asema.
She crashes into the room, sliding on the smooth stone, catching herself on the wall. She is missing her helmet. Blood—bright red and copious—streams from a gash on her forehead, blinding one eye. Her armor is dented, the chest plate caved in as if struck by a giant’s hammer.
She looks at Imas, her good eye wide with panic. She is gasping for air, clutching her side.
"My Lord," she wheezes, spitting blood.
Imas lowers the sword an inch, but he does not relax. "Report."
"The gate is breached," Asema chokes out, sliding down the wall until she is sitting in a pool of her own blood. "Malek... he didn't just bring soldiers. He bought the House Guard."
She looks up at Imas, her expression twisting into a rictus of despair.
"They turned," she whispers. "Your own men. As soon as the wards fell... as soon as they felt your magic die... they opened the doors for him."
A sound comes from the top of the stairs—the heavy, rhythmic tramp of boots. Dozens of them. And beneath the sound of marching feet, a low, buzzing hum that makes the teeth in my head ache.
Magic.
"They are coming," Asema rasps, trying to stand and failing. "And they are bringing the war beasts."