Chapter 7 #3
Images of battle slammed into her, playing out in her mind’s eye: Nakir’s soldiers cutting her mother’s guards down one by one and taking her bloody crown; the doors to the throne room flung open as they dragged the bodies in one by one.
Countless faces flashed in front of Alethea’s eyes until they settled on one lithe, slender body.
Ker’s uniform nearly ripped to shreds, her lifeless eyes open and her red hair stained a deeper crimson.
Her mother’s body lay before the throne, a sword protruding from her chest. Yet the lifeless eyes of the corpses in the hall turned on her—on Alethea. Your fault, they moaned. Your fault.
That was when she knew she’d gone too far.
Alethea, they called to her, over and over, but she had tipped over. She fell face-first, falling through the vision into total and complete darkness. Voices sounded in her ears, screaming and whispering, as she drowned in the void.
Alethea.
“Alethea!”
As if she’d been yanked from icy waters, Alethea gasped for air as her consciousness slammed painfully back into her body. She was on her knees, Nakir’s firm grasp on her shoulders, his lips moving, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. His expression was clear though: pure fear.
“Get a bucket,” she heard Balthasar order, just in time for her stomach to violently expel its contents into the pail that appeared in his hands.
“Gods,” she heard Ker swear from across the room. Alethea had no doubt they were just as disgusted with her as her mother usually was, and she covered her face with her hands as if she could hide her shame.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Nakir asked, trying to carefully pry her hands away from her face. “Your eyes—can you see? Alethea, answer me.”
She blinked up at him as the dim light of the morning sun filtered in through the white tent walls. “My eyes are fine,” she told him, her voice impossibly small. She was covered with a thin layer of sweat, and yet she was chilled to her very core.
Kerrigan muttered something in the background, but she couldn’t make out what it was.
“She’s not fine—she’s running a fever.” Emi’s voice came from her side. The young woman’s touch brushed her face, ice-cold against her skin.
Nakir swore. “Bal, help her,” he commanded tersely.
“Easy there,” came Balthasar’s deep baritone. With it came a sense of peace. It washed over her, wrapping her up tightly like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s night.
Everything else faded away.
When her eyes opened again, she was back on Nakir’s bed. Her vision was filled with the sight of his sharp, hauntingly beautiful features.
She took in the sight of him, his black hair loose and falling around those dark horns. Alethea had so little strength, but she somehow raised her arm and ran her fingertips along one of them, surprised by how hard they were under her fingertips.
His expression was hard, but he didn’t stop her.
“You’re angry,” she observed, her voice a rasp.
The fact she could say it out loud meant it must be true.
His amber eyes were molten and filled with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine.
His jaw was set in a hard line, accentuating the sharp angles of his face, and his nostrils flared with barely contained frustration.
“Yes,” he breathed, taking her hand in his own and placing it on her chest. “Yes, I am. You cannot... you cannot do that again. I forbid it. You will not be allowed to burn out while under my care. Do you understand me, Alethea Onasis?”
Her lips parted, unable to understand what he meant. Her mother would be so angry with her for giving so little information in a vision... but Nakir was angry for an entirely different reason.
“Answer me,” he ground out, and she shrank from him. “I need you to tell me that you understand.”
“I understand,” she murmured, unable to meet his eye.
“Nakir,” Balthasar called from outside the tent, and Alethea thought it sounded like a warning.
“We’re going to finish this conversation. Get some rest. I’ll have the Healer come check on you later.” He drew the blanket up to her chin and tucked it tightly underneath her before departing with the rest of them.
Alethea caught the last moment of their conversation before the tent flap closed.
“. . . tell the soldiers to prepare to break down camp, send word to reinforcements...”
Though exhaustion pulled at her every bone, fear was now coursing through her.
They were still going to go through with the attack on Hyelea.
Alethea rolled out of the bedroll, collapsing onto the ground and desperately searching her pockets for the ritual spell Bernadea had given her.
She couldn’t stand by and watch Nakir and his soldiers wreak havoc on innocent people. And Kerrigan...
Alethea had never cast a ritual spell before.
They were available to anyone with means, regardless of magical abilities, but she’d only ever read about them in stories.
Her education in magic was incredibly lacking.
Even still, as she withdrew the vial from her dress pocket, she knew it would be her only chance to keep her people safe.
Who her people were in this equation, however, was unclear.
Her vision had shown her too much death for her to be able to live with the consequences.
She found a handkerchief and wrapped the vial in the cloth. Every movement ached, her muscles rebelling against this half-cocked plan. In one solid motion, she slammed the bottle down on the hard-packed earth and whispered, “Zenobia Onasis.”
The room shuddered with magic, and a chill ran down her spine. Soft blue lights wafted up from the vial, dancing around themselves and hovering before her, waiting for her message.
“Prepare the city for a siege. Bring in the people from outside the walls. You can protect them. Please.”
Alethea tucked the cloth-wrapped shards of the vial underneath her pillow and managed to haul herself back up into bed before unconsciousness overwhelmed her.