Chapter 6 Syrrah #3
The beast moves like a snake, flowing across the ground toward us. Rooke shoves me behind him, his blade catching the light as he takes a defensive stance.
“Your sword can’t hurt shadow,” I say, backing away slowly.
“Maybe not.” His grin is pure menace. “But I’ve learned that everything bleeds, given enough time.”
The creature lunges, faster than anything that size should move. Rooke’s blade flashes up, slicing through its form with a sound like tearing silk. The beast recoils, its shape dissolving where the sword struck, but the shadows quickly flow back together.
“Run!” Rooke shouts, already moving to strike again.
But before I can move, a cry pierces the air—human, pained, desperate.
“Help! Please!”
The shadow beast’s head whips toward the sound, all its burning eyes blinking in unison. Through a gap in the maze wall, I catch a glimpse of someone sprawled on the ground, clutching their leg. Blood stains the stone beneath them.
“Rooke—”
“No.” His voice is sharp as he parries another strike from the beast. “It’s too dangerous.”
But I’m already moving, my healer instincts overriding caution. The beast lunges for me, its form stretching like pulled taffy. Rooke intercepts it, his blade cutting complex patterns through its substance. Each strike seems to confuse it, forcing it to waste precious moments reforming.
The creature screams again—a sound of frustrated hunger that makes my skin crawl. It rears up, spreading itself like a canopy of living darkness above us. Rooke pushes me roughly aside as it crashes down, its substance flowing around his blade like water.
“I said run!” he growls, dancing back from another attack. His movements are precise, almost beautiful in their deadly grace. Each strike disperses part of the creature’s form, and it seems to take the beast longer each time to repair.
I hesitate, torn between my need to help the victim and my fear of leaving Rooke. The beast seems to sense my indecision. It splits itself, part of its mass flowing toward me while the rest continues to engage Rooke.
Rooke curses, slicing through the tendril reaching for me. “Syrrah, go!”
I dash through the gap in the wall, my heart pounding in my ears. Behind me, the sounds of combat continue—the whisper of Rooke’s blade, the otherworldly screams of the beast, the scrape of boots on stone.
The injured man lies crumpled against the wall, blood covers his thigh, the fabric torn. He’s young, barely more than a boy really, his fine clothes marking him as another hunter though he seems too young to qualify.
His hair, a shade like golden wheat, falls in loose waves around his face, damp with sweat and matted with dust. The light catches in his wide, glassy eyes—a striking shade of sky blue, too bright, too full of untested fear.
His skin is smooth, unblemished, untouched by the scars of battle, of survival.
He does not bear the weathered lines of a man who has suffered, who has fought and lost and kept going anyway.
Unlike Rooke.
“Let me help,” I say, already searching for the boy’s injuries. The familiar action helps calm my racing heart.
I touch his leg, searching for a wound.
Behind me, Rooke fights with everything he has.
I risk a glance back to see him spinning through forms that seem impossible, his blade never still.
The beast’s substance parts around each strike, but it’s learning, becoming harder to hit.
Though it is slow to reform, it moves faster once whole, its attacks more precise.
“His sword,” the injured boy gasps, drawing my attention back. “It shines.”
I look again at Rooke’s blade, noticing how it seems to leave traces of light in the air as it moves, like stars being drawn in the darkness.
The stones in my pocket vibrate sharply, almost painfully, as if they sense the danger. I pull them out, their glow intensifying in my palm. The light pulses in time with my heartbeat, warm and alive against my skin.
“Rooke!” I shout, clutching the stones. “Catch!”
He glances back as I toss them toward him. With reflexes honed by countless battles, he snatches the stones from the air. The moment his fingers close around them, they flare with blinding light.
The shadow beast recoils, its form writhing and twisting as if in agony. The light from the stones spreads like wildfire, consuming the creature from within. Its screams echo through the maze, a roar of pain and fury that makes my ears ring.
Rooke doesn’t hesitate. He hurls the stones directly into the heart of the beast. The moment they make contact, the light explodes outward in a brilliant burst, illuminating the entire maze. The shadow creature shrieks, its form dissolving into wisps of smoke that are quickly consumed by the light.
When the glow fades, the beast is gone. Only the faint scent of sulfur lingers in the air, along with the scattered remnants of the stones, now dull and lifeless.
Rooke stands amidst the aftermath, breathing heavily, his sword still in hand. He looks at me, his eye wide with surprise and admiration.
“Well,” he says, his voice rough but tinged with amusement, “it seems they explode after all.”
I rush to his side, my hands already moving to check for injuries. “Are you hurt?”
“Nothing a little rest won’t fix,” he says, though I notice the way he favors his left side. “You, on the other hand, just saved my life. Again.”
I ignore his teasing, focusing on the shallow cut along his ribs. “You’ll live.” I pull him toward a nearby stone bench. “Sit. Let me tend to the boy, then I’ll see to you.”
He complies, though not without a smirk. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”
I shoot him a glare but say nothing; instead, focusing on the youth. The injured boy watches silently, his face pale but his breathing steady.
The wound before me is shallow and clean-edged, as if made by a very sharp blade. I work quickly, crushing moss I’ve collected between my fingers to make a poultice that will slow the bleeding and numb the pain. I pack it, wincing when his hand snakes out to grip my wrist.
“Please, young sir, I need to finish. This will help you avoid infection.”
His grip tightens on my wrist, painfully hard. “I would, but I’m afraid this show must end.”
Too late, I hear new footsteps approaching.
My head snaps up to see someone—a man—emerge from the shadows behind Rooke.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, his build made heavier by layers of battered leather armor.
The flickering torchlight catches on the jagged edge of a scar running down his neck to disappear under his clothes. His face is a cruel snarl.
I open my mouth to scream a warning but he’s too quick, crashing a large club into Rooke’s head. Rooke crumples to the ground, his body hitting the stone with a sickening thud.
I instinctively move toward him only to stop when something hard and sharp presses against my back—the point of a sword.
“Well done, boy,” a rough voice says. “The master will be pleased.” The sword presses harder against my spine. “Don’t move. Or your friend’s next blow will be fatal.”
My eyes remain fixed on Rooke’s crumpled form, searching desperately for any sign of movement. A twitch of his fingers. The rise and fall of his chest.
Blood trickles from a gash at his temple, staining the cobblestones beneath him in a slow, dark pool.
He lies so still—too still.
The young hunter releases my wrist and stands, his injury forgotten. “She’s a healer,” he says, brushing dirt from his fine clothes. “Could be useful.”
“Matters not but that she has a cunt,” the man behind me counters. “What do you think, Addicas? Keep or slay?”
The scarred man, the one who hit Rooke—Addicas—studies me with cold eyes. “The master will want her. Bind her hands, Eryn.”
The young hunter produces a length of rope, and I realize with sickening clarity that this was all a trap.
“What about him?” The third man gestures at Rooke with his club.
“Leave him,” Addicas commands. “He’ll bleed out soon enough.”
My heart seizes. “No! Please—” The sword digs deeper, cutting off my protest.
“Quiet,” the swordsman hisses. “Or we’ll make sure he dies slowly.”
Eryn binds my hands, the rope biting roughly into my skin. I barely notice the pain, my eyes still locked on Rooke.
Please get up, I silently beg. Please don’t be dead.
But he doesn’t move.
“Time to go,” Addicas says, grabbing my arm. “The master awaits his bride. Peitr, help Eryn.”
They drag me away from Rooke’s body, forcing me deeper into the maze. I stumble, my makeshift foot wraps catching on the uneven stones. Each step feels like a betrayal, carrying me farther from the man who’d protected me, who’d shown me what freedom could taste like.
I open my mouth, wanting to scream his name, demand he stand, he wake, he laugh. But my voice is locked in my throat, trapped behind terror.
He’s dead, a voice whispers in my mind. Dead because you couldn’t follow his instructions. Dead because you had to play the healer.
Tears blur my vision, but I refuse to let them fall. These men won’t see me break. Instead, I focus on memorizing their faces, their voices, the way they move. If I survive this, they won’t.
We walk for what feels like hours. The sun climbs higher, beating down mercilessly. My throat burns with thirst, but I don’t ask for water. I won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing me beg.
Eryn walks close behind me, his breath hot on my neck. “Such a pretty little thing,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down my arm. “The master will enjoy breaking you.”
I jerk away from his touch, earning a laugh from Pietr. “Careful,” the swordsman warns. “This one has spirit.”
“Spirit can be tamed,” Addicas says from the front. His voice holds no emotion, which somehow makes it worse. “They all break eventually.”