Chapter 7 Rooke
Rooke
To hunt is to live. To be hunted is to die.”
— OLD RAIDER PROVERB
Pain drums a steady beat against my skull.
Consciousness returns slowly, each heartbeat sending fresh agony through my temples. The stones beneath me are wet—with blood or rain, I can’t yet tell. Everything tastes of copper and failure.
Syrrah.
I force my eye open, the world spinning sickeningly as I push myself up. Details flood back in flashes—the shadow beast, the injured boy, the crack of something hard against my skull.
A trap. It was all a fucking trap.
Whoever had taken me down knew to approach from my blind side, hampering my ability to catch their approach.
“Syrrah!” my voice echoes off empty stone. No answer comes except for the pounding in my head. Blood drips into my eye as I stagger to my feet using the wall for support. The place where they attacked us shows signs of struggle—scuffed stone, torn fabric, a length of bloody rope. But no bodies.
She’s alive then. Taken, but alive.
For now.
Rage builds in my chest, hot and familiar. They took her. While I lay here useless, bleeding on the ground, they took her.
But not for long.
I glance around, my vision still blurred, searching for any sign of her.
The pull in my chest, the one that’s been building since I first saw her, flares bright and unrelenting.
It’s not just duty driving me anymore, or even guilt.
She’s more than a pawn now. More than a means to an end.
Somewhere along the way, Syrrah stopped being the prize and became the reason.
The thought hits harder than the blow that felled me. Damn it, I can’t afford this. Keo’s life still hangs in the balance, but the idea of losing Syrrah—of her vanishing from this world like a candle snuffed out—twists a blade deep into my ribs.
Fury surges again, sharpening my focus. My jaw clenches as I examine a scrap of cloth left behind. Fine wool, dyed in colors that mark them as from the Iron Kingdoms of the north. They’re known for taking what they want by force—and they want women most of all.
A sound escapes me—something between a laugh and a snarl. Fools. They have no idea what they’ve taken.
I check my weapons, ignoring how the movement makes my head spin. They’ve taken my sword, but my daggers and throwing knives are all present. Good. I’ll need them all before this is done.
Their tracks lead northwest, toward the darker parts of the maze where ancient magic runs thick as blood. They’re moving fast, but not faster than a man driven by rage and something that feels dangerously close to love.
“I’m coming, Syrrah,” I whisper to the empty air. “Hold on.”
Then I begin to run, following the pull of my knowing and the screaming of my heart.
The hunters have become the hunted.