Chapter 15 #2
Not from the trial itself, or the arrows—these things won't kill me, not with the healers waiting in the wings, as per the king’s command.
But I'll die slowly, over the coming days, when Briar is executed because I failed.
When Gareth reports to the king that I'm useless after all. When no supplies, no hope, no relief ever makes it back to the Burn, and I don’t either, and so Marta and all that remains of the life I once fought and scraped to save will finally collapse.
And everything I've endured over this past week will amount to nothing.
Nothing.
You are nothing without the dragon.
It’s not true. Without her, I’m still a survivor. That isn’t nothing. I won’t let him dismiss it so readily. And yet…
And yet.
I didn’t come here to merely survive.
I wipe more blood from my chin. A minute passes. Maybe more. My vision is hazy. My eyes water, but I don’t shut them, instead forcing them in the direction of the dragon as I try to work soreness from my jaw, to mouth the words I can’t bring myself to say out loud.
Help me.
And then, because I don’t know what else to do except keep fighting, I stand and make my way back to the starting line.
Without a word, I break into a run.
The trial starts again, the soldiers clearly still enjoying firing at me, even though I’m hardly an impressive target at this point. I stagger forward with everything I have left, even though I know it won’t be enough.
Duck, says a sudden, whispery voice in my mind.
My gaze jerks toward Blight, certain I’m imagining things.
Duck, she says again.
“What are you—”
Gareth strikes before I get the words out. His sword catches my wounded hip this time. Dizzying pain overwhelms me, and I’m rolling across the ground an instant later. I come to a stop curled up on my side, pressing a hand to that bleeding hip.
I told you to duck, comes the dragon’s voice, a hint of smugness in it.
“How…” I groan.
His movements are very predictable, if you pay attention. You could count the number of arrows that are fired between his strikes. You could see the twitch in his step, the way he—
“No, how did you, how are you…” I press my lips together as bile rises in the back of my throat, a response to the pain wracking through my entire body.
Gareth is standing over me again. His face is spinning—everything is spinning—but I think I see confusion in his eyes.
“She…spoke to me,” I mumble.
He stares for several seconds before the meaning of my words seems to hit him. His gaze lifts to Blight, then settles back on me.
“…On your feet, then. It seems we’re close to a breakthrough.”
I sit up. That’s as far as I can go before the nausea threatens to overtake me again.
The arena churns around me, and I feel it creeping in again—the urge to give up.
To lay down and close my eyes until the spinning stops.
Until everything stops. Maybe we’re close to a breakthrough, but all I feel is the breaking.
This is too much.
It’s all too much.
Stand up, says Blight.
I level my gaze in her direction. I want to be angry at her for trying to push me. Anger is easier. Fury has always been what I reach for in these desperate moments when I feel like I don’t have it in me to take another step.
But fury is a fuel that burns terribly bright and wickedly quick. Too quickly to sustain me in this sprawling palace of horrors, to carry me all the way through this nightmare I’ve found myself in.
So this time, I push it down. I let something else rise in its place, even though I don’t yet understand what that something else is.
I stand up, one last time.
And just before I break into another run, I glance over my shoulder to find Blight watching, her golden eyes locked on me.
She doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t warn me when to dodge, when to move faster or slower. But I feel pressure building in my skull, pushing out the pain in my head, bringing warm clarity, and I realize…
She’s trying to show me.
My entire world fractures at the thought.
For a disorienting heartbeat, I'm in two places at once: stumbling through the sand, bleeding and broken, while also perched on a platform twenty feet away, studying my own battered body from afar.
Then the two perspectives slam together.
And I can see.
Not just with my left eye. With both eyes—and with a sharpness unlike anything I’ve ever had, before or since Emberfall.
I can see the archer positioned fifteen degrees to my right, drawing back his bow.
I can see the exact distance between me and the nearest barricade. Not a guess. Not an estimate. I know with perfect certainty that it's eleven and a half feet away.
I can see the depth of the entire world. Everything that was flat suddenly has dimension. The arrows aren't just flying at me; I can trace their entire trajectory through space, can see precisely where they'll be and when.
Another one flies toward my blind side.
I watch it arc through the air, watch it spin, watch it drive—
And I slow for half a step, avoiding it with ease, judging the distance and timing with perfect precision.
I'm sprinting again before I fully realize it.
Arrows rain down from above, from the sides, from positions I never could have tracked before. But now I see them all—not just with Blight's eyes, but through some strange hybrid of her vision and mine. I dodge, duck, roll, come up moving, and every step I take is more confident than the last.
An arrow streaks toward my calf. I leap over it. Another targets my shoulder. I twist, and it whistles past.
Gareth steps into my path, sword already swinging. But I see it coming—not just the blade, but the wind-up, the shift in his weight, the exact curve his strike will travel. I slide under his arm, so close I feel the displaced air from his attempted blow, and I keep running.
As I triumphantly shoot past him, a surge of determination floods through me, and I realize Blight is feeling the same thing, her resolve bleeding into mine.
Along with her strength.
The barricades aren't obstacles anymore.
They're opportunities. I vault the first one and land perfectly on the other side.
The gaps between obstacles that I've been misjudging all morning are suddenly obvious.
I slip through them like water, and in no time at all, the goal rises directly ahead of me.
The steps are even more daunting up close. But I can see them. Every narrow, warped board, every nail waiting to catch an unwary foot, every place where the structure might wobble.
I scramble up them two at a time.
An archer above draws back, aiming for my head. I see it—Blight sees it—and without another thought I’m moving, ducking, believing that if I just shift my weight here, the arrow will miss by inches…
It does.
Then the platform is nearly within reach. Five feet. Three. One.
A final arrow screams toward me.
I drop two steps. The arrow pings harmlessly against the steps, and then I’m immediately climbing again. One hand slaps the platform's surface. Then the other. I hoist myself up and over, and somewhere behind me, I hear Blight's triumphant roar echoing my own ragged cry of victory.
I did it.
We did it.