Chapter 25
I forgot everything.
Forgot that I felt like I was in a casket, forgot why I was here, forgot where I had come from, forgot who I was.
All that existed in the world was Hugo’s lifeless body.
Somehow, I was bent over in front of it. I hadn’t even realized I’d moved. For a moment, I felt as though I had shifted out of my body and was observing the scene in front of me like a shadow on the wall.
From this surreal vantage point, I could see my own terror-filled eyes scanning his corpse.
I could sense my alarm at the sight of the bloody wound on the back of his head, weeping a puddle onto the dirty floor.
I could feel my confusion as I discovered the shards of broken glass speckled amongst the blood, like chips of ice floating in a crimson sea.
I could taste my distress at the realization that it was the remains of what had once been my potion.
A cough and a splutter from the corpse jolted me back into my own body, back into reality.
The ragged breathing told me it was not a corpse. Hugo was alive. Barely, but he was alive.
I didn’t know whether to scream in horror or weep in relief. I did neither, as I frantically scanned the side of his face that was not drowning in blood.
“Hugo?” At the sound of my quivering voice, his eyelids fluttered, as though he was fighting to prise them open. “Hugo, it’s Alara. Who did this to you?”
His responding whimper was like a wounded animal in distress. A wave of nausea rose in my stomach.
“I’m going to get help. You’re going to be alright.”
Another whimper.
Before I could leave, he startled me by grabbing my arm. His grip was weak, and his fingers were icicles. He didn’t speak, but I knew from this one small gesture that he wanted me to stay.
I placed my hand against his forehead—a pallid canvas coated in sanguine paint—and I recoiled at the contact. His skin was freezing beneath the sticky warmth of his blood. He didn’t have much time.
“Listen to me,” I tried to sound reassuring, but my voice was cracking. “I have to go find help. Hold on. Please.”
Choking on a sob, I didn’t look back as I stood and sprinted out of the cell and back through the chamber.
Lungs screaming in protest, I didn’t falter as I made my way down the hallway over shards of broken glass, until I reached a spiral staircase.
Mind in a haze, I didn’t think anything other than, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry as my feet pounded up the stone steps, two at a time.
So absorbed in my desperation, in my purpose, I didn’t notice the solid wall until I collided into it.
No, not a wall. A person—a member of the Royal Guard, flanked by several more guards.
At the sight of them, I came undone.
My cries of distress were met with harsh commands to explain myself.
Short of breath and in complete hysterics, I somehow managed to convey that the prince was dying in a dungeon cell.
Guards rushed off to find him. At the same time, someone removed the sword from my hand—I’d forgotten I was holding it.
A firm pair of hands tightened around my shoulders and ushered me forwards. I vaguely heard a deep voice telling me I needed to be seen by a healer.
Then, my legs were moving.
I was walking. Walking down a brightly-lit corridor that smelled like burning candles. But I barely noticed it. It was as if I was in a bubble that no external force could penetrate. Outside of it, all sights and sounds faded into the background.
This wasn’t the first time I’d encountered a Borealis at death’s door. I might have been reminded of the night of the shipwreck had I not been in total shock. Instead, I continued to float in my bubble, unable to comprehend anything except one singular thought. Please don’t be too late.