24. A Beautiful Sight
A BEAUTIFUL SIGHT
GAbrIEL
In all my years, I have never seen a sight more beautiful than Wren washed in the brilliant flames of her magic. Sparks waltz around her, dancing to a tune only they can hear, and the same fire that devoured my father’s soldiers coats her fingers.
Wren seems lost in the thrall of her power, her eyes glazed. The suns shine upon her, casting her in a golden sheen that amplifies her charm. Unrestrained, her Mark is an iridescent sapphire in the middle of her forehead. The wind rustles her hair, blowing her indigo curls behind her.
She is a thing of beauty, and she is fated to be mine.
Pride fills my chest, and I renew the vow I made earlier. No matter what happens, no matter what obstacles we face, I will not let Wren get hurt.
I reach within myself and tug on my bond with Mist. I called on her the moment Alaric removed the shadestone, knowing I’d need her.
Hurry, I tell her, reiterating the command I already sent.
I’m eager to see my bonded familiar with my own eyes and confirm she’s in one piece, but that’s not the only reason I summoned her.
I’ll need all the help I can get to guard Wren.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since meeting my gods-blessed, it’s that she’s predisposed to bad luck.
If something could go wrong, it does. It would be laughable, if it didn’t mean her life was constantly being put on the line.
But now, Wren has me. She is in desperate need of protection, and I will provide that for her.
I won’t have to wait long. A heartbeat after Wren summons her magic, one of the king’s soldiers looks our way.
I recognize him instantly, with his fiery red hair and the scar cutting across his left cheek.
Lochlan Briar, one of my father’s most trusted Protectors.
Like Hunter Erlet, Lochlan has done some horrendous things to gain my father’s approval.
“There!” Lochlan lifts his sword, pointing it at my Given. “She’s the one King Andreas seeks!”
All the air is sucked out of the clearing as dozens of eyes swing towards us. Even the rebels pause and direct their attention our way.
The blue flames spread, crawling up Wren’s arms. They’re warm, the heat emanating from them pushing back the winter’s chill even from where I stand a few feet away.
I want to growl and tell everyone to turn away from Wren. She isn’t theirs to look at or admire or get to know. She’s mine.
It would’ve been easier to defend Wren inside the mountain, but I wasn’t going to stop her from coming out to fight. It speaks to her compassion and inner strength that she couldn’t sit by and wait for the battle to be over.
A beat passes, and then Lochlan takes a step forward and shouts, “The king wants her alive!”
A chorus of agreement rises from the nearby soldiers. Anger bubbles hot and fast in my veins.
They want my little bird, but they’ll have to get through me first.
I adjust my hold on my sword, familiarizing myself with the feel of it in my nondominant hand. Thank all the gods, I’ve been training to use weapons with either hand since I was young enough to pick them up. There are some benefits to growing up in a castle filled with soldiers.
My lips twitch as I appreciate the irony of using my training in the king’s courtyards to keep his soldiers from getting Wren.
And I will stop them, or I’ll die trying. There are no other options. Now that the soldiers have seen Wren and made their intentions clear, they’ve signed their death warrants.
My gut twinges, warning me to pay attention.
I trust the feeling implicitly—it’s always been right. Following its lead, I turn. And just in time. A soldier is charging towards me. I don’t recognize them, not that it matters.
I lift my sword, meeting my attacker’s weapon with a clash of steel.
I grunt, shoving him back. A blue glow tinges our swords, and I draw strength from Wren’s nearby presence.
I spin, bringing my sword down in an arc, and blood sprays as my blade finds my opponent’s neck.
He’s dead before his body hits the ground.
One down. Countless more to go.
I glance over at Wren. Her eyes have cleared, and she’s staring at her flame-wreathed hands with determination.
“These are bad people,” she mutters. “They’re hurting innocents, and they want to hurt you. Remember that.”
Drawing in a deep breath, she lifts her chin and raises her hands.
The flames dance on the winter breeze. One of the Marked Ones next to her murmurs something too low for me to hear, and Wren nods.
She shifts her stance, and then, as if she’s been using magic for her whole life, she twists her fingers.
Blue light pulses, and the flames writhe, forming a sphere floating above her hands.
It hovers, moving when Wren lifts her right arm.
She stares into the fray of soldiers at the foot of the mountain, takes a deep breath, and lobs her magic.
The fire sails through the air, joining a sparking orange sphere originating from the Marked One on her right, and it slams into a charging soldier.
An explosion of blue and orange fills the battlefield, the man’s cries joining the din of pain.
I can’t look away from Wren for long. Her mouth is pinched in concentration as she draws more flames from someplace within her, the wind whipping her hair all around.
Fire circles her hands, and she looks like a goddess of old, like she belongs on the tapestries lining the walls of my father’s palace.
That connection within me, the one fated by the gods, sings. There is no doubt in my mind—this is what Wren was always meant to do.
Another soldier charges towards us, and I cut them down before they reach Wren. More soon follow, and they keep coming.
I’ve taken down nearly a dozen soldiers before there’s a tug in my chest. The insistent yank comes from deep within me, momentarily forcing my attention away from Wren to the forest beyond the mountain.
Silver eyes emerge first, followed by a sleek black coat and sharp claws digging into bloody snow. Relief surges through me, and a piece of me that has not been whole since we’d been taken into the mountain heals.
Thank the gods, you’re here, I murmur to Mist through our bond.
Even though we can’t speak through our forged connection, warmth floods my chest, and I know she’s just as relieved to see me. Now, with Wren behind me and my bonded familiar in my sights, I allow myself to fall into the killing calm that has resided inside me for as long as I can remember.
For years, I hated this part of myself. My mother is a stranger to me, but even so, I am certain the darkness inside me, the one that delights in bloodshed, pain, and agony, is my father’s “gift” to me.
I used to abhor this part of myself because it meant that no matter how hard I tried, I’d never truly be able to separate myself from the king. I would always carry a part of him with me.
But now I will use his gift to defend Wren no matter the cost. There is no greater irony than the fact that my father wants Wren, and I will be the one keeping her from him.
Time and space have little meaning as I wade through the darkness. All I can keep track of, all I care about, is the gods-blessed with indigo curls. Nothing else matters; no one can break my concentration.
My weapon is an extension of my body. Cries of agony are a never-ending chorus. My sword collides with another, a vicious clash. Mist snarls ferociously. Our bond pulses, a living, writhing connection as we fight in tandem. A blue sheen coats my vision. Blood paints the snow.
At some point, clouds cover the suns. Snow starts falling, a white sheet blanketing everything in sight. The scent of copper lingers in the crisp winter air.
Still, the king’s soldiers come. Watchers, Protectors, Enforcers, and even a few Hunters. Their numbers seem endless as they stream out of the forest.
I continue fighting.
It doesn’t matter that my opponents were once my brothers- and sisters-in-arms, nor does it matter that I used to stand among their ranks. Not when they are standing against Wren.
Minutes pass, or they could be hours. I have no idea. I am nothing but a weapon.
A few times, I feel the sting of pain as someone gets close enough to hurt me, but even that does not break my concentration.
There is no time for injuries or to worry about myself.
I am a bringer of death, and death is in each of my movements. I lose myself to my purpose, letting everything else slip away until Mist jerks on our bond. She draws me out of my haze, and the hand that lands on my arm speeds up the process.
“Gabe.” Wren’s eyes sweep over mine. “It’s over.”
What does she see when she looks at me? Will she fear me again now that she’s seen the darkness I’ve been hiding? Will she pull back, taking her growing trust with her?
I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens, but I can’t keep my eyes from crawling over her, searching for injuries. Save for a few shallow cuts on her arms and face, she is unharmed. Her Mark’s glow seems dimmer than before, but she appears to be in one piece.
Still, I must confirm. “You’re all right?”
“I am.”
“And the soldiers?” I can’t bear the thought of looking away long enough to confirm.
“All dead, save four who have been taken in for questioning.”
“Good. That’s good.” A searing pain starts in my chest, and I frown. My sword feels oddly heavy, and for some reason, my thoughts are sluggish.
“Gabriel?” Wren’s voice sounds far away, and I have trouble concentrating on it. It sounds like she called me several times before, but I didn’t hear her. “What’s wrong?”
Looking down is a monumental effort, but when I draw apart the folds of my cloak, my vision swims. My tunic was already brown, but now, a dark stain covers the front of it.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper. “That’s going to be a problem.”
A tremor starts in my knees, and it spreads through all of me. The pain I was ignoring and all the injuries I sustained while protecting Wren rear their heads at the same moment. They slam into me, stealing my breath. Crushing me.
One moment, I’m standing.
The next, my legs have given out and I’ve fallen onto my knees in the bloody snow.
Everything hurts. There is no centralized point of pain because it feels like I’m breaking.
Blackness edges my vision, and the last thing I hear is an ear-piercing scream. That thing between Wren and me pulses, and then I careen headfirst into darkness.