Chapter 45
They springinto motion like they’ve been slapped in the face. It’s not their brutal swords I’m afraid of, though, but the serum in Katrijanov’s syringe. If this is the magic nullifying drug, I can’t let him come anywhere near me, or I won’t stand a chance if he injects me, and I can tell by the glint in his eyes as he approaches me that he intends to do exactly that.
Beside me, Myron is fighting, his power whipping through the room, keeping Ephegos busy. Sparks glimmer in the air where magic hits magic, raining down like falling stars. I’d marvel at the sight were there not four armed men approaching me with murder in their eyes.
Without a second thought, I tug on my water, sending the string like a lasso around the first guard’s neck and tugging hard enough to bring him down. The second man stumbles over in an almost comical manner that binds my attention a moment too long. The third guard is almost upon me, and his blade is much longer than the knife I wield, giving him more reach and an unmistakable advantage. I’m a heartbeat too slow, reeling in my power to slap him off trajectory, and his blade hits mine with too much force for me to be able to block it. Steel slides against steel as he pushes back, and the sword reaches my shoulder, piercing with ease through the linen shirt covering my skin.
Pain explodes where he shoves deeper into my flesh, and I bite back a scream. I can’t draw Myron’s attention, or I’ll get him killed. Ephegos seems to have better control over his powers than Myron, even if he isn’t as strong as my Crow.
I struggle against the man’s force, drawing upon my Crow senses and the strength buried deep within me if Shaelak gave me all of a Crow’s power.
The man grunts as I push him off, slinging my water around his neck and pulling taut as he lashes out with his sword again.
Guardians, it hurts. Blood streams down my arm in a river of crimson, but I don’t let go of the water I direct to snap the man’s neck. I drop the corpse and send my water toward Katrijanov, who has come within reach with his unholy syringe.
“We need to get out,” I call to Myron, who’s engaged in a battle of his own now, throwing blast after blast at Ephegos. There is no shame in running if it means we’ll get out alive.
“Run.” Myron’s voice is strained from the effort of holding onto his power when he’s so clearly still recovering from the nullifying drug. His power is draining fast, and if I leave him to fight on his own, he might not walk away.
“Not without you.” I don’t dare look his way as I sling the string of water around Katrijanov’s neck once, twice, and pull hard enough to break bone. A sickening crunch tells me something broke in his spine, but the victory is short-lived. Just as I want to sigh a breath of relief, Katrijanov tilts forward, grabbing for me as he falls out of my magic’s grasp. I see the needle coming toward me in an inevitable path. All I can do is duck away, but I’m not fast enough.
Myron is, though, his massive form sliding between the general and me, and a grunt tells me he took the impact. The man isn’t the problem, he could lift him easily, but Katrijanov’s needle made it into Myron’s biceps as he clutches onto the male, legs failing.
“Fuck—”
I couldn’t say it any better. In reflex, I step around Myron, ramming my knife into Katrijanov’s neck, but it’s too late. Half of the drug has made it into Myron’s arm.
Shoving the man off Myron, who’s suddenly unstable on his legs, I rip the syringe from Katrijanov’s dead hand, careful not to squeeze in more of the liquid.
Of course, they have the serum down here if they are handling fairies. After what happened with me, Ephegos would never risk allowing his prisoners to go undrugged.
“Can you walk?” Discarding the syringe, I drape Myron’s arm over my shoulder.
He staggers back toward the gap in the wall, eyes never leaving Ephegos, who’s preparing to strike again, magic glimmering at his fingertips.
“Don’t run, Ayna,” Ephegos shouts from between a broken shelf and a split metal table, dust settling where Myron’s power last hit. He is still on his feet, ready to wield his magic.
I don’t even try to wonder what will happen if I don’t get Myron out of here right now.
“Erina will be disappointed not to have a Milevishja wife… You know, just in case another Milevishja pops up who claims to be of the royal bloodline.”
I ignore him, setting one tired foot in front of the other as I drag Myron into the corridor. If only I knew how to build one of those shields, I could ward off Ephegos’s next strike.
Silver flashes through the room as he sends his magic flying, and I barely manage to yank Myron out of the way. My injured shoulder screams as I take his weight with it. Myron tries to keep his balance, but the drug is fast-working, and he’s already swaying. Not long and he’ll black out.
“Come on…” I pull him along, fighting to keep him moving while simultaneously searching for the water string I dropped alongside Katrijanov—may he never rise again—but can barely sense my own magic.
Ephegos is on our heels, slower than expected with all the strength he’s used fighting Myron or simply reluctant to injure us in earnest. If he truly means what he said, he’ll keep both of us alive—me to marry Erina for breeding little royals, and Myron to make sure I play along. Perhaps dying is the better option.
A groan of pain escapes Myron as Ephegos’s next blast sears his shoulder right where his inked mark spreads on his skin, and I almost drop him as heat singes me in the same place like the mark connects us physically rather than just our souls.
We need to fucking run. But my feet are sluggish, and Myron’s are failing.
“If you get us out of here, I promise I’ll consider converting to the Neredynian faith,” I whisper to Vala, or Shaelak, or any Neredynian god who’d hear me.
A glance over my aching shoulder informs me that Ephegos has made it across rubble and debris. Blood runs down his forehead where rocks hit when they rained from the ceiling, but he is in control of his limbs, and that’s more than Myron and I can say for ourselves.
Not far… I can see the steel bars of the cells ahead, yet the exit is a lifetime away, and if Ephegos chases us at that speed, he’ll catch up long before we can ever dream of climbing out the hole Myron tore into the outer wall, let alone escape into the city.
The corridor is swarming with guards—and they are wearing sepia.
Erina knows what’s going on down here, or he wouldn’t have sent his palace guards.
“There is nowhere for you to run, Ayna,” Ephegos hisses.
I don’t deign him with a look. Cleary, there isn’t. He’s blocking our way back, and in front of us, rows of guards are closing in.
We’re fucked.
“We need to make it to the cells,” Myron whispers, head lolling as he stumbles one step after the other. He doesn’t have long. “Get him to the cells.”
It takes me a moment to understand, but as I do, hope flares in my chest.
Steeling myself with a deep breath, I call upon my magic, dragging the thin rope of water toward me.
It’s a hassle, costing me more than I have left to give, but I hold on, snapping the water like a whip along the corridor.
Horror in their faces, guards leap out of its way, crashing into the iron bars fencing the corridor. I don’t stop to count how many. Too many for sure. It’s an impossibility for me to fight them all and win, but I keep pushing, alternating with the lashes toward the front and the back, keeping both the guards and Ephegos at bay—for now. As long as I have a breath in me, I’ll fight to defend Myron, even if it means I’ll burn out. I won’t lose him again.
The wound in my shoulder makes it difficult to wield the water, and I’ve long given up on my knife. It’s up to me and my strength now.
Unless a miracle happens.
We inch forward, Ephegos on our heels and the guards trying to cage us in, but the only cage is my fear of losing Myron, and that’s the strongest driver pushing me past my breaking point.
I break, and I break, and I break, power draining from me as I aggregate every last drop of water in this Godsforsaken dungeon. From the cells and from the guards’ blood, it creeps to me, weaving into a stronger rope, threading itself around me as I call it to my aid. My skin tingles and heats, the pain originating in the tattoo no longer punishing but a reward, reminding me what I am fighting for.
I count the bars instead of the dead guards dropping where my magic severs their necks, and I wonder if this is Shaelak’s power or that of Vala—water or Crow magic—or both. My legs are unstable as I take more and more of Myron’s weight. He’s about to pass out, and I’m not strong enough to carry him. I won’t leave him behind either, and we’re outnumbered.
“I love you, Ayna.” Myron’s voice kisses my cheek where his head rests against mine, his hair dangling into my field of vision.
“Don’t you dare say goodbye.” The anger in my voice surprises me more than anyone. “We’re getting out of here.” I push forward, one agonizing step after the other, Myron nearly dead weight. “Stay awake. Do you hear me? Fucking. Stay. Awake.” Because the moment he closes his eyes, we’ve lost. “I’m not going back to prison because you need a nap.”
It’s a weak attempt at humor, and the smile hurts, turning into a grimace as one of the guards I’m about to cut down reaches for a knife instead of his sword—and hurls it right at my mangled wrist.
I’ve never known pain like this. Not even when they broke my arm on the way to Fort Perenis—not when they let it heal without setting the bones. Not when I was about to die in the Seeing Forest. The blade slices clean through tendons and bone, and I nearly drop Myron with my other arm. My scream tears through the dungeon. If Erina hadn’t known I was here, he would know now.
But he doesn’t need to come down to this dark, filthy part of his palace. He has his loyal Crow friend to make sure I won’t escape.
Myron grunts his protest as I try to tug him forward, ignoring the agony as best I can as I tuck my hand to my side. My magic is gone, snapped like my bones and ligaments, and retreated into that dormant place inside of me. I doubt I have the strength to call it back.
“Stop!” Ephegos bellows, and the guards freeze immediately. “King Erina wants her alive.”
The guard who hit me lowers the second knife he is now pinching between his fingers, and I heave a breath. A few feet ahead, I can make out the silver light where Myron tore a hole in Silas’s cell. So close. If I can push a little farther…
My knees buckle, and I catch myself against the nearest bars, Myron sliding off my shoulder. He’s still awake, but his eyelids are drooping. “Don’t fall asleep.” It isn’t more than a whisper. I’ve got nothing left. Not even a voice.
Myron’s head rests against my side, his ocean eyes speaking of a freedom that isn’t meant for us. My heart aches for him, for the king who came to save me, and whom I couldn’t save, and a tear wets my cheek as I realize we’re not getting out.
The air reeks of blood and dirt and my own failure as I hold Myron’s gaze for just one moment. One moment longer before they’ll put us back into cells.
“I’m sorry.” Because there’s nothing else I can say.
The forgiveness in Myron’s eyes almost steals what’s left of my composure, and I focus on him and nothing else. This final moment where my blood-caked fingers can tangle in his hair. Where his warmth seeps through my clothes. Where I can feel his heartbeat beneath my palm. Myron’s lids flutter, blocking the view of those beautiful eyes, and my heart shatters.
It takes about three painful breaths until Ephegos’s feathered face appears before me, a gleeful expression so different from the loathing in his eyes shaping his again-human features.
“It’s over, Ayna.” His magic snakes around me as he weaves another one of those barriers, locking us in, and I would have missed the soft cracks and thuds had movement not caught my attention over Ephegos’s shoulder. One by one, the guards drop dead, their necks snapping at Herinor’s silent hand. My heart stutters, eyes shuttering as I try to figure out if I’m seeing things from the blood loss and pain. It wouldn’t be the first time my mind checked out because reality is simply too much to handle.
Ephegos reaches into his tattered jacket, extracting a set of manacles. “Myron isn’t going anywhere, but let’s make sure you don’t get any ideas, Ayna, shall we?”
My spit lands right beneath his eye, and I laugh in his face. It’s more a croak and sounds the slightest bit unhinged, but what do I have to lose?
Wiping his sleeve over his cheek, Ephegos studies me with hatred. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his mask slip so entirely, but it fits. I prefer the honest detestation to the false grins and sugary words. Let’s call things by their name.
“We shall nothing.” I kick out as he grabs my hand, trying to close one manacle around my wrist, and my heel connects with his shoulder, making him drop my hand, which I ball into a fist and throw at his nose in a healthy punch.
My knuckles protest as I keep my hand curled tightly, ready to throw another one, but Ephegos is cursing and spitting blood. He hasn’t noticed Herinor, and that’s the only hope I have—bind his focus on me so the male can kill off the guards one by one. How he keeps them from screaming, I wish I knew. If I live to tell the tale, I’ll ask him to teach me how to do that because the panic in the guards’ eyes as they notice the trail of bodies Herinor is leaving in his wake tells me they didn’t hear him coming either.
He’s two thirds up the corridor, the silver light promising freedom crowning his head and shoulders, and had I not known exactly who he was, I could have believed one of the Guardians has joined us in this humble setting. But Herinor’s growl makes its way through the space, eventually drawing all attention—including Ephegos’s.
Crimson spittle runs down Ephegos’s chin as he whirls around, weighing his options between pinning me down and fighting Herinor.
“See who’s returned,” he hisses over his shoulder, grabbing my punch-ready fist with an iron hold, and doesn’t let go, no matter how hard I tug—which is no longer much. What’s left of my magic is a cool pond in the depths of my being, unreachable, similar to the way the drug made it disappear; only the awareness lingers. And my senses?—
I can smell the freedom waving from Herinor’s direction as he marches up, slicing through skin and bone, flesh and sinew. It doesn’t matter how many guards stand in his way; he wipes them out like a male on a mission.
He’s a few steps away now, his gaze hard on Ephegos as he marches up to us, throwing up a shield behind him to block out the remaining guards.
“You know you can’t kill me—not in this world. You’ll die if you lay a hand on me. And you most certainly can’t save her.” Ephegos reminds Herinor of the terms of his bargain. I hadn’t known a no-killing-Ephegos deal was included, but I should have guessed, or Herinor would have long slit the fucking traitor’s throat in his sleep. I can see it now—the ruthless brutality he warned me of that first day in the torture chamber at the Flame estate, the menace pounding in his veins.
“I might just try my luck.” Herinor stops behind Ephegos, sword aiming at Ephegos’s shoulder and his magic ready at his fingertips glimmering in silver sparks.
“No—” We didn’t go through all of this just to have another person sacrifice himself.
Herinor’s eyes fully meet mine for the first time since we entered the dungeon, and the resolve I find there almost brings me to tears. He means it. He’d give his life to get both of us out—his king and queen.
“Royad?” It’s all I need to say for him to understand what I’m asking.
He curtly dips his chin.
Royad is alive and safe. At least, the best ones among us got out. Clio and Kaira and Royad…
All but Myron. He’s the last of the good ones.
A trickle of magic wraps around my injured wrist, leading it to Ephegos’s waiting one, and the steel manacle falls into place regardless of my injury. Trying not to black out at the fresh assault of agony, I grit my teeth.
“Don’t fucking touch her.” Herinor’s gaze is that of a male ready to murder—again—and I don’t need to think one beat to know there is only one outcome to this if he is dead-set on saving us: we’ll all be dead. And Herinor will pave the way straight through Eroth’s Veil.
“It’s all right.” Every word hurts, but I force them out anyway. I turn to Herinor, ignoring the way Ephegos forces the manacles even tighter. “Just get Myron out. I’ll be all right.” Because helping Myron won’t break his bargain. He’s done it before.
Whether it’s the plea in my voice or the panic in my eyes, I can’t tell, but he blows out a breath, ignoring the guards hacking at his invisible shield with their meek swords. He sheaths his own blade and side steps Ephegos, reaching for Myron’s limp form, and my chest tightens at the sight of him, defenseless and pale. The light tingling in the inked mark on my shoulder is the only thing reassuring me that he’s still alive.
“Don’t you dare.” Ephegos throws a blast of magic at the male, but Herinor takes it with grace, grunting at the impact of power on his shield, not more than swaying. “I’m the King of Crows. You have sworn loyalty to me.”
Herinor sweeps Myron up in his strong arms, careful not to jostle him too much in the process, and I bemoan the warmth seeping into my skin where Myron’s face rested against me. “I might have sworn loyalty to you; that doesn’t keep me from saving my friend.” His eyes find mine one last time, and I manage to force myself to turn away from Myron’s face to meet his gaze. “I can’t save you, Ayna. You’re on your own.”
Sweat beads Herinor’s forehead, and his chest is heaving labored breaths. Something is definitely at work as he finds his way around the constraints of his bargain. It pains me to watch, and yet, I can’t look away as Herinor takes a careful step toward the back of the dungeon where starlight beckons.
Nothing happens. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t fall, doesn’t disintegrate or dissipate into crimson mist.
Ephegos curses as another one of his blows scrapes against Herinor’s mighty shield, and there is nothing he can do—nothing except shout after the male walking away. “You will regret this, Herinor. You’ll regret you ever even considered betraying me.”
Herinor stops and turns, Myron’s head rolling against his shoulder as he lifts it in a casual shrug. “I wouldn’t expect any less from a traitor.” He inclines his head in a mock bow to Ephegos before turning to me. “It’s been an honor, my queen.”
The last word comes out half-choked, and I imagine I see a trail of blood trickling from the side of his mouth, but he spins around and continues down the corridor, not even bothering to lash out at the remaining guards with his magic when his shield is keeping them at bay.
I can’t stop staring. I don’t blink the entire time until he reaches the very end of the dungeon where he slips through the hole in Silas’s cell and melts into the shadows. The starlight flickers for a moment, but I only know they truly made it out when the guards stumble like the wall they’ve been leaning against melts away, and they charge after the two males with their blades ready.
A part of me thanks Shaelak that those guards weren’t equipped with the magic-dampening weapon that was used to capture Myron in the first place, but before I can wonder how far the two males will make it—if they will find Royad and the others—a fist connects with my jaw, and the world turns into a black pit where not even my Crow senses can help me.