32. Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Two
Asheros
M y heart leaps into my throat, sending me upright with a start, my breaths rough and heaving.
Raw, blazing alarm wreaks havoc on my body, my limbs tight with adrenaline. Immediately, my head snaps to my left, to the empty space in the bed beside me.
Tension works at my jaw, and I repeatedly run my hands through my hair.
Fear.
Clutching my shirt, I quickly make sense of the blood pounding in my ears.
Fear, yes. But not mine.
Hers.
My mate is afraid.
“Lymseia,” I murmur, over and over again. “Lymseia!”
She’s afraid. Gods, she’s so afraid.
I need to get to her. Right now.
Scrambling from the bed, I throw myself into the hall, not sparing a moment to bother with shoes or lighting a candle. I scan the dark hallway, aimless. I have no idea where she’s gone, or how to reach her.
Panic muddles my thoughts, the drive to protect the only identifiable thing I can hold onto.
“Focus,” I urge myself like Lymseia does when she’s feeling overwhelmed. It’s the only way to be of any help to her. Pressing my eyes tightly shut, I lean forward, looking inward to our bond. If there’s anything that can lead me to her, it’s that.
Searching my mind, I wade past the well of my magic waiting to be used and reach a wide, open space. If my untapped power is a lake, then my bond with Lymseia is a forest—tall, stable trees that provide shelter and withstand even the harshest of elements.
I feel her there.
Her fear.
“I’m coming, Bladesinger,” I mutter, like a prayer. “I’m coming for you.”
Not giving a second thought to my surroundings, I break into a run, blindly following the tug in my mind that feels like my mate when she’s near. The only thing I can comprehend, the only thing I can perceive, is her.
I weave through the manor’s unlit halls, stumbling through the dark. I burst through doors and run over neatly trimmed grass.
Where is she where is she where is she —
When I see her fall, something inside me snaps. My legs propel me forward, numbed to the burn in my muscles. I barely even discern the male figure standing over her like a shadow, black wings nearly invisible against the night. My mind runs wild, frantic, like my entire world is crashing and colliding and imploding in on itself.
All I can think about, all I can look at, is her .
Catching a glimpse of me, the male shoots into the skies, black wings flapping like a vulture’s. I pray to every damn god in the pantheon that I’m not too late.
Praying that whatever he did to her can be undone.
Praying that I can help her .
When I’m within an arm’s reach of her, I fall to my knees, running my hands over her body to feel for injuries. But there’s nothing.
Nothing.
Her eyes are closed, and she’s so still I’m afraid she’s—
I can’t even finish that thought.
Swallowing, I press two fingers to the side of her throat, beneath her jawline, relieved out of my mind to feel a pulse there. A slow, faint pulse, but a pulse, nonetheless. Lowering my ear to her mouth, I feel a faint breath. Her breathing is slow and strained, but gods, she’s breathing.
She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive.
Urgency powers my movements, possessiveness taking over me. Scooping her into my arms, I cradle her to my chest and break into a sprint. I barrel into the manor, yelling as loud as I can.
I don’t care if I wake the entire gods-damned city.
My mate needs help.
“Help!” I cry, screaming until my voice runs ragged and my throat stings from shouting. “I need help!”
Savell’s the first to come into view, his entire body on high alert. I’ve never been so fucking glad to see him. A question forms on his lips but vanishes when he sees my mate’s limp form in my arms. Kheldryn, then Gryska, and then Ronan follow, their faces void of color.
More bodies flood the hall, shock and fear etched into their expressions.
“Let me through!” an authoritative female voice bellows.
Kylantha Wynterliff forces her way through the crowd, her gray eyes stormy. Her gaze lands on her daughter, and she rushes towards us, sobs sounding in her throat.
“Gods above,” she cries. “Lymseia!”
“We need help,” I beg. “It’s magic,” I say, not sure how I know. I still hear Lymseia’s faint life force in the forest of my mind, but she’s just beyond my reach, as if she’s trapped behind a locked door.
“I do not—” Kylantha stammers. “I cannot, I—”
“She will be all right,” Lord Onas, Lymseia’s father, coos, folding his wife into his arms. “Her mate will care for her now. We must trust him to have her best interests at heart.”
Kylantha’s mouth twists into a devastated wince. She opens her mouth as if to protest, but melts into her husband’s embrace, her chest wracked with sobs.
Onas turns to me, his cobalt eyes fierce. “If you believe this is some kind of magic, you will need the best healers in the realm to attend to her.”
I nod, understanding his message. The royal healers are the finest alchemists the kingdom has to offer. “How can I get to Keuron in time?”
Riding by horseback would take a little over a week to reach Keuron. Even if we left now, there’s no way of knowing how much time she has left.
“Are you strong enough to conjure a portal?” Savell asks.
“Maybe,” I tell him. “I’ve never dared to expend that much energy.”
But I have to try.
Worry flickers at Savell’s mouth, his cheeks taut with tension. It’s a good thing he knows better than to argue with me right now. Because nothing, and I mean nothing, matters more to me than my mate.
Savell dips his head, determination setting his jaw. “What do you need?”
S tanding in a quiet room holding my mate close to my chest, I close my eyes.
Focused on the weight of my silver dagger strapped to my chest against my skin, and the extra silver items arranged around me that Savell had found—some silverware, candelabras, and plates—I locate my untapped power in my mind. I’ve grown so comfortable conjuring my shadows that there’s no need to envision my magical reserve in my mind’s eye. But for magic like this, it helps me maintain concentration.
With our mate bond in place, the empty nothingness that had once surrounded the lake in my mind is now a lush, dense forest—like those of Lymseia’s home Court. I imagine myself wading into the lake while holding her against my chest, moving farther from the shoreline until the water is higher than my waist. The buoyancy makes her glossy, blue-black hair float, framing her face like a crown.
A dull ache claims my chest when I look at her sleeping face. Gods, I want to—no, I need to—see her open those gray eyes again. I need to hear her voice. To feel her touch.
I need her. Crave her. In the worst fucking way possible.
My intention is firm, like my resolve. There is only one thing I want, in this moment, one thing I need.
To get my mate the help she needs .
With that intention consuming my every thought, every desire, every wish, I draw on my power. The lake responds, water shifting, waves crashing. I feel it seeping from within, molding to my will. The more power I draw, the more it buzzes beneath my skin.
Opening my eyes, I see it humming beneath my fingertips, raw power swirling around them in a deep, forest green. The air crackles and vibrates, the very floor I stand on becoming unsteady, like the lake.
Still, I draw more magic until I scrape the very bottom of the well. There’s so much power within me now, buzzing in my blood, my ears, my teeth. Gods, there so much magic that I feel as though the tethers of my being that bind my soul to my body might fracture at any moment.
There is a reason fae don’t wield this much power.
But I don’t care.
She is the only thing in this entire gods-damned world that matters. I don’t care about what happens to me. There is no me, without her.
And so with one final push, I give way to the magic.
It exits from me in one fell swoop. The air before me bends into an ovular shape, twisting around a central point, like water flowing down a crevice. A flash of light nearly blinds me, and I stagger backward, closing my eyes.
But when I open them again, High Keep’s throne room is visible through an elongated round entry point.
Weakness claws at my bones. I almost wonder if I have the strength to step forward.
Lymseia lets out an agonized moan.
Fury tears through me, my rage scorching. Clinging to my mate, I take a jagged, sharp breath and launch myself forward. We fall through the portal. I turn around, so it’s my back hitting the stone floors, and not Lymseia.
I know I must be weak, because my mind can’t process the pain.
The moment we’re through, the portal vanishes behind us, and with it, the last of my magical energy. All the voices around us stop at once, the room falling silent.
“Lymseia?” a male voice asks, tight with worry. “Lymseia!”
“Viridian.” Desperation ravages my words, and I turn my head to his voice. My vision goes dark with delirium, fighting to stay conscious. “Help her! Someone! Gods, please, please, I’ll give you anything. Just please, whatever you do, save her.”
Someone—Viridian, I think—takes Lymseia from my cold, trembling arms.
Then the darkness overtakes me.