49. Archer
Archer
Imanaged to maintain my composure—barely.
It was an extreme undertaking of willpower, and the fire is still flaring in my veins as I battle every primal instinct to go after Reid and Thorne and destroy them entirely.
Two men who used and abused Saige for years, men who took advantage of her pain and suffering.
I saw the shame that flushed her face when they crossed the threshold of the shop, I could see in her eyes that she blames herself, that she thought I’d share the backwards moral standpoint she’s no doubt heard from mortals.
That I’d think less of her. I don’t. I don’t think I ever could.
Who I think less of, is them. Reid and Thorne. Mortals of the lowest caliber. There is only one fate they deserve, and I want to give it to them. I want to burn their skin away inch by inch, until the agony sears into their veins and blackens their bones.
I tell myself it’s Saige’s choice how she deals with them, that she asked me not to bring violence into the shop—I already towed the line with that boundary, but gods do I want to spill their blood more than almost anything. I want to listen to their screams like a symphony of my own making.
It’s Saige who stops me. Not just her words. But her.
She’s been quiet since they left, back at her bench, working on the Confluence. She’s doing something called burnishing the gold leaf, her brows knitting together in concentration.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask gently.
Saige doesn’t look up from her paintbrush. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“You could tell me how you feel?”
Her movements are meticulous, a true master of her craft—steady hands, a delicate touch.
“I don’t know how I feel,” she admits. “I wish I’d never met them.
I wish I’d never gotten involved with Reid.
I wish he’d never introduced me to Thorne.
But what good does wishing do? Even now looking back, I can’t see a different way.
All the healers, all the tests I paid for, it would have bankrupted Yevna.
She would have sold the Kettle, Raven would never have got her apprenticeship.
Leo would have been dragged into it as well.
We would all be destitute and I’d still have no answers about what’s wrong with me.
So, I wish I’d never met Reid and Thorne, but I did.
My life altered course because of it, and it’s my burden to bear. ”
“You don’t have to bear every burden alone, Grayson.”
She raises a brow at me. “You’re one to talk, General.”
I wave her off. “Nonsense.”
But she holds my gaze. “I see you. Don’t forget that.”
I’m taken back to the dark dank cell of Gravereach, and her small hand taking mine through the bars when she first said that to me. The first gentle touch in two hundred years, the first whisper of comfort. “You’d never let me.”
“Glad we’re on the same page,” Saige says, stepping back and dusting her hands on her apron. “There.” She moves aside and closes the fold so I can see the finished gilded edge.
“Grayson…” I murmur in awe. In her expert hands, the Confluence has changed drastically. It’s no more a tattered relic of the past, but an actual book. It’s far closer to its original condition with the filigree restored, with the boards in place. “You’ve worked a miracle.”
“Well, I was Leo Bergmunn’s apprentice,” she says quietly.
“You are a master in your own right,” I tell her, resting a hand gently on her shoulder.
The most delicate shade of pink stains the tops of her cheeks. “Thank you.”
“Is it done?” I ask gently.
“Not quite. We need time to make sure the glues are dried and pressed, plus, there are measures that should be taken to preserve it in future. It’s still fragile.”
“But then?”
“Then it will be done to the best of my ability, as promised.”
Saige turns the Confluence over in her hands, mapping her work with her fingers. She inhales sharply and before I can ask her what’s wrong, I feel it too—a pulse of power surging from the book.
It happens so suddenly that Saige’s tools and pieces of loose parchment are blown back, sliding across the bench surface, as though swept up by a phantom wind.
I shove Saige behind me, shielding her from whatever the Confluence is emitting. “What in the realms—”
“We don’t. The longer we have it in our possession without using it against Malevron, the higher the chance he’ll find us again. If he gets his hands on it, he will use a bookbinder, whether that’s you or another master, to piece it together and use against Lorevael. We need to beat him to it.”
Saige stares at the ancient text, sounding dazed as she peers down at her discovery. “Sometimes I hear it murmuring…”
I’m already rigid as fuck, but her words have my breath whistling between my teeth. “What do you mean? What can you hear?”
“Whispers through the Weave—”
My hand shoots out, but I’m too late as Saige traces the gilded edge with a fingertip.
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t take her eyes off me, her stare dark and intense.
For a fleeting second, I wonder if the Confluence has put her in a trance, if it has her doing its bidding.
It wants to be let loose upon the realm, it craves a master, someone to wield its terrible power—
A sharp bark breaks through the tense silence and Saige’s eyes flare in panic as she rushes to the front of the shop, peering out the window. “That’s Grim. Something’s wrong.”
I’m already moving, my Azkari instincts flooding my senses, taking me back to the battlefield where everything was life and death, where I was a General first and foremost.
“Stay here,” I tell her, grabbing my sword from beside my pack and make for the door. “I mean it, Grayson. That’s an order."
I don’t wait for her inevitable objections, I throw the door open, the stupid bell chiming as I dash out onto the street, heart pounding, blood roaring in my ears.
I’m no dog whisperer, particularly when it comes to Yevna’s old mongrel, but Grim’s howl is desperate, and it sets my teeth on edge. The poor beast is braced at the entrance to the metal workshop across the high street, his hackles raised as he snaps his jaws at whatever’s inside—
Suddenly, Daemos’ voice is drifting towards me, a whisper sent with the wind, unfurling around my ears: We’re under attack. Keep the Confluence away. Don’t fight—
“Fuck that,” I mutter, drawing my sword, allowing the black flames to swarm its blade. I have magic to burn, I have a reservoir of power I have barely touched since escaping Gravereach, I’m ready to unleash a fucking inferno.
Grim’s snarling is vicious, he only pauses to look up at me when I reach his side.
“Who’s in there, boy?” I ask quietly.
He barks once, twice, and then snarls.
“No idea what that means,” I mutter, before charging inside.
Immediately, I can taste the magic in the air.
A magic I am all too familiar with. I hate that it makes my skin crawl, that it makes me want to shrink back rather than fight.
Two hundred years being chained to mirror magic will do that to any Azkari.
I push my shoulders back and brandish my sword.
Whatever lurks within these walls, I’ll end it, I’ll send it back to Malevron in fucking pieces.
“Archer!” Raven’s voice sounds from across the workshop, and I spy her brandishing a fire poker at a looming figure by the bellows. A scream rips from her throat—
“Mirudytes.” The term escapes me as the breath is stolen from my lungs, but I throw a stream of onyx fire at the monster, wincing as its high-pitched shriek pierce through the roar of the forge.
I close the space between us, placing myself between Raven and the beast, its withered skin still scorching from where I first hit it.
But this time, I use my sword. There’s no greater or sweeter agony than cutting through flesh with flaming steel.
And cut through it I do. My blade falls in three precise motions, the first severs an arm, the second slices off the other, and the third…
the third decapitates the foul monster, its smoking head falling the floor with a thud.
Raven vomits into the fire, still clutching her poker. “Thanks,” she manages.
I dip my chin in acknowledgement, but my senses are still on fire and my instincts have me sprinting back towards the door. Grim is still barking outside and a second later, my brother’s voice fills my head once again.
There’s more. In the alley. Come quickly.
My black flames flare in warning as I burst back out onto the street in time to see Saige run from the stoop of the bindery across the road, brandishing a fucking paring knife.
I’m by her side in an instant. “I told you to stay inside.”
“I thought you knew I was no good at following orders, General,” she replies, gripping her small blade.
“Triad save me,” I mutter, squaring my shoulders as we reach the alley, doing my best to place myself between her and whatever threat awaits.
“What the fuck?” Raven wheezes as she catches up to us, joined by Yevna who is waving a cane violently.
“How did this happen?” Saige demands. “I thought they couldn’t access our realm?”
I don’t have time to answer as three more mirudytes emerge from behind the mounds of rubbish in the alley.
One charges for us instantly, and I swing my sword, splitting the creature from what I think is its navel to its nose—if it had one.
And then my flames consume it, setting its bones alight from within.
I’ll burn them all. I’ll burn every single one of them until there’s nothing left but mirudyte ash—
A familiar presence brushes my shoulder, and I find Daemos at my side. “He’s had followers leave tainted mirrors all over the high street,” he explains. “But what are you doing? I told you to get her—get it—away from here!”