Chapter 36 Leila #7
Another step forward. She kept Her head low, Her face hidden in shadows, but soon he’d be able to make out Her features. She was almost near enough to touch him.
The prisoner rose to his feet and squared his shoulders. “I told you, this is my hunt.” Leila came in closer, and he bared his teeth. “If you think you can steal from me—”
She ripped Her dagger free and slammed it into the man’s chest repeatedly. His eyes shot wide, but She didn’t falter, blood pouring from each puncture as She skewered him again and again.
The man toppled to the ground and dragged Leila with him, but She didn’t relent.
She straddled his waist, plowing Her blade into his mutilated flesh, releasing a fraction of Her pent-up aggression.
She wasn’t sure how long he had been dead before She finally stopped, panting as She studied the corpse beneath Her.
She had littered him with holes, Her hands and cloak wet with his blood.
Impassively, She sawed off a finger, then washed Her palms in the snow. Her stomach rumbled, and She took a seat on the fallen log, yanking a leg from the roasted rabbit and devouring it without decorum or grace. She needed the energy.
There was one prisoner remaining—one person standing between Her and victory.
She would not be defeated.
She stayed by the fireside, warming Her hands and eating what remained of the rabbit until its bones were picked clean.
There was no use in searching for the final prisoner.
The forest spanned for miles, and they’d be nearly impossible to find in the dark.
Instead, She remained at the campfire, Her swallow resting against the log beside Her latest kill’s sword, Her remaining weapons tucked in Her belt.
The prisoner would see the fire. Eventually, they would find Her.
And She would be ready.
She wasn’t sure how long She sat there, staring into the flames.
Something within Her felt missing, as if She were a soul untethered from Her body.
She drifted in and out of Her physical form, Her thoughts wrapped up in Tobias and Thessen and unfathomable rage, then gone entirely, Her mind as silent as the surrounding forest. There was a peace to not thinking, not feeling, forgetting one’s own existence aside from the aggravating numbness of Her fingers and toes.
Footsteps interrupted the quiet, and Leila returned to Her body.
The prisoner broke free from the shadows, his towering form painted orange from the firelight.
Leila sat in silence as Her eyes traveled up his immense height.
She remembered this man. He was the largest prisoner in the lineup, with ropey arms and a rugged brown beard, and though She couldn’t make them out in the darkness, She remembered his penetrating blue eyes.
He was Her final adversary, likely the most lethal of them all.
She would bring him to his knees.
The man eyed Her just as She eyed him, betraying no emotion. “You’re Thessen’s Savior?”
He spoke Her language well. It was unusual for common folk to be multilingual, or so She’d read. The prisoner had held a title at some point. She nodded.
He glanced out at the darkened forest around them. “How many of us remain?”
“Just you and I.”
He adjusted his belt, and that’s when She saw it—the broadsword on his hip, its edge coated in dried blood. He was the one who’d killed the challenger with the auburn beard.
“Do You need a moment?” he said.
“No.” Leila stood, dropping Her ragged mantle to the ground. “I’m ready.”
The prisoner nodded, then pulled his sword free, readying it. “It won’t bring me pleasure to kill You.”
She took Her stance, rage bubbling at the surface, overtaking Her.
“It’ll bring Me great pleasure to kill you.”
The man’s weapon cracked against Hers, sending Her skidding across the ground.
She shoved him free and countered, relishing the crack of steel against steel, the strain of Her muscles and the fury within.
She ducked beneath his next swing, using Her size to Her advantage, then shadow walked past the campfire.
If Her magic surprised him, he didn’t show it, as he barreled Her way without a single hesitation.
Each blow She delivered was solid, unyielding, and harder than the last, as She summoned every morsel of fortitude She had left in Her beaten body.
There was only one man between Her and victory, and that fact alone fueled Her.
Her feet glided through the snow, nimble and fluid.
Their battle was a dance in the Queen’s Forest, their audience the flickering flames.
Leila’s body was a symbol of misery, and She reveled in the suffering, reclaiming it as power.
Every wound She’d known had reopened, and She fought against them all—against the man in front of Her, against Her own tortured thoughts, against the very reason She’d never known peace.
Brontes filled the corners of Her mind, and She let out another roar, Her sword plunging into something firm.
Her weapon was wedged in the prisoner’s stomach.
As She ripped the sword free, the prisoner buckled forward, hands on his knees. Leila knew better than to waste time. She readied Her blade for a final blow, but a massive fist plowed into Her jaw, sending Her staggering, then collapsing.
Away.
Leila burst into light just as the prisoner’s weapon came crashing down.
She was behind him, and She aimed for his back only for him to spin toward Her, deflecting Her assault.
The wound hadn’t slowed him. Each blow he landed vibrated through Her, his strength something otherworldly.
Gritting Her teeth, She pushed him away, and though She didn’t yield, Her breathing had become ragged, Her limbs weak.
A slice ripped across Her stomach, and She cried out, clutching the torn flesh.
The next blow he landed slashed Her thigh, and She dropped to one knee.
His weapon cracked against Hers, the X of their blades inching toward Her face.
The threat of failure hung over Her, a familiar dread.
Had She fooled Herself? Brontes was laughing at Her, no doubt, the thought enough to make Her wince.
Their crossed swords lurched closer to Her, and She cried out once more, hands trembling and throat raw from strain.
Tobias. The two promises lacing Her wrist were on full display, a reminder of everything She loved—everything at stake.
Suddenly, Her wounds were paltry, and Her fire reignited, a power She coveted and craved.
She shoved the prisoner aside, then plucked one of the daggers from Her belt and launched it into his chest.
The prisoner staggered backward, clawing at the weapon lodged in his flesh, but Leila didn’t relent.
She flung Her second dagger at him, sending him tottering off balance, a moment of weakness She could use.
She swept the swallow from its resting place, and just as Her opponent readied his sword, She ran toward him, plowing Her weapon through his gut and slamming him down into the campfire.
The man shrieked, the sound almost shocking coming from such an imposing opponent.
Leila stomped on the side of his face, pressing him deeper into the flames.
As he flailed beneath Her, She ripped the swallow from his gut and pounded it into his chest once, twice, three times, twisting it until something snapped.
Fire nipped at Her boot, and She stumbled backward, leaving Her conquest amid the blaze. She watched for a moment as his skin bubbled with blisters, then slowly charred amid the flames.
The icy wind sent the red ribbons fluttering against Leila’s wrist. Tobias.
There wasn’t time for rest. She yanked one of Her daggers free from the corpse and grabbed at the prisoner’s hand, angling the weapon before stopping short.
The ache of Her wounds had returned, but the power of Her wrath lingered, wanting, commanding.
With Her jaw clenched, She began to saw.
Guards trailed Leila as She barged into the throne room. She was limping after a long trek through the forest, But She refused to stop, not until She got what She wanted. Whispers followed Her, but Leila paid them no attention, Her sights set on Prisca.
The queen sat casually in her throne, leaning against the armrest as if she’d grown tired of waiting, though something glinted in her gaze when Leila appeared.
Enzo and Hylas lingered beside her dais, and they bolted upright, eyes wide and stricken.
Soon after, Delphi and Raphael were running into the space, calling Leila’s name, but She was deadened to the sound.
Stopping directly in front of Prisca, She dug through Her pocket and tossed the severed fingers to the floor.
“Here are your trophies.”
Prisca’s gaze traveled downward, counting the appendages one by one. Nine. She opened her mouth to speak, but Leila was already untying the makeshift sack hanging at Her hip.
“I almost forgot.”
A charred hand tumbled to the floor, magnificent in its size and state of destruction. Prisca looked down at the maimed limb, then at Leila, a soft smile splitting Her lips.
“A warrior queen through and through.”
“You will advance your army against My father and assist Me in reclaiming My throne,” Leila said. “Only then can Kovahr and Thessen be at peace once again.”
Silence stretched through the throne room while Leila stared at Prisca, willing Her eyes to become daggers. Nervous whispers filled the space, but Leila held firm, taking in the queen’s steadfast smirk, the light strumming of her fingers against the armrest of her throne.
The queen nodded. “So it shall be done.”
Gasps erupted around Leila, but She was overtaken by the victorious thundering of Her war drum heart.
She’d known loss and suffering, had doubted Herself time and again, nearly fell victim to Brontes’s voice echoing in Her mind.
No more. She was The One True Savior, Queen of Thessen, a fate She’d inherited—a title She’d earned.
“Then our first task is a rescue,” She proclaimed.
“My greatest ally has been imprisoned in My father’s stronghold—where it is, I’m uncertain.
” Fury still quaked within Her, and She reveled in its unbridled power.
“I don’t care if a single life is meaningless to you.
We will find Tobias, and we will free him from harm.
He’s held amid the same mercenaries My father aims to wield against Kovahr.
And so I order you to find this stronghold—”
“We know of stronghold,” Prisca said.
Everything within Leila stilled. “Pardon?”
“The stronghold. We have been watching closely.” Prisca leaned back in her seat. “We will destroy Brontes’s mercenaries—and save Your love, of course.”
Leila was quiet for a long while. Prisca’s words repeated in Her mind, yet somehow they felt far away and muddled, an echo She could only barely make out. “You’ve known where Tobias has been this whole time?”
“As you know well, I have my spies.” Prisca chuckled, glancing at the guards on either side of her before turning to Leila. “It is good for us, yes? We come together.”
Leila didn’t move, didn’t so much as breathe, Her new reality still taking shape in Her mind.
She had Her army.
She’d imagined this moment many times, had expected Her heart to burst, that She might weep with joy.
The strongest warriors of all the ally realms were at Her disposal, and here She stood, a warrior queen tasked with leading them all.
Prisca waited on her throne, a smile on her lips, and emotion rumbled beneath Leila’s skin—not joy or triumph, but that familiar, all-consuming rage burning straight from Her chest and down Her limbs.
She set Her jaw and curled Her blood-stained hands into fists.
“You fucking bitch.”