34. Ambush | Lyra
It was too much.
The water felt heavy as it pressed down on her.
Colors were muted, and shadows gathered at the edges of her vision.
Her breath stuttered through her lips, and tiny bubbles fled for the surface. She was jealous of them.
Drystan cupped her cheeks and moved slowly towards her.
She couldn’t move.
Her heart pounded against her ribs.
His eyes were just beginning to close before he slammed them open. Terror carved horrific lines across his face as his mouth stretched open in a silent scream.
In one swift move, he had flung her away from him.
Lyra slammed into the ledge and then collapsed onto the coral.
Her skin stung as it tore open against the reef and sea fans.
There was so much blood.
Too much for the small scrapes on her arms and stomach. She looked up to yell at him for assaulting her and saw the spearhead sticking out of his back.
A harpoon.
“Drystan!”
He let out a low bellow, clutching his side.
Her hands fluttered around him, trying to search for other injuries. His skin was feverish beneath her touch.
He batted her hands away.
“Stop,” he grunted. “Get back.”
Lyra scanned the surface, expecting to see a boat, but there was nothing.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
Shadows appeared in the distance, racing towards them. It was difficult for her to make out who or what they were.
Drystan grunted, gripping the shank in both hands and broke part of it off, leaving most of it still lodged in him.
More blood seeped from around his wound. It turned the water crimson, shifting the salty taste to iron.
“Get back to the palace,” he ordered. He outstretched the shank before him like he intended to wield it like a full-fledged weapon.
Drystan tried to shove her away with his other hand and nearly collapsed. “Get out of here!”
Lyra was frozen.
From the position of his wound and where her body had been a mere moment ago—she should have been dead.
The spear should have pierced her heart, and now it was embedded in Drystan’s torso.
“T-they were aiming f-for me,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to her chest as she stared at his wound.
He ground his teeth, his skin turning rapidly pale from the blood loss. “And I’ll slaughter them for it.”
He would bleed out or die in this battle, and yet—he was trying to save her.
He had been telling her the truth earlier. In his own stunted way, he truly thought he loved her.
Was willing to die for her right now.
Lyra shook her head, and her auburn hair waved with the movement. “You won’t survive a fight. But I know a place we can hide.” She grabbed his hand and attempted to take him with her.
He resisted. “I will not run from this. I will kill them and the merman behind this.”
Lyra opened her mouth to argue when Drystan’s gaze turned molten on whatever had appeared behind her.
“Aegir.”
She turned, watching as the shadows became corporeal.
They were acolytes.
“Then they’re here for both of us,” malice turning her voice brittle.
Drystan looked around and cursed under his breath. “We have no other weapons.”
Lyra didn’t feel fear anymore. The anxiety that had stilted her movements and stuttered her speech evaporated like steam.
All that remained was fire. Was rage.
Unending, unyielding wrath. It bloomed in her chest and seeped down her arms.
Lyra flexed her fingers, feeling her talons curl around the water. She would carve them up piece by piece.
The weight of his gaze pressed against her cheek, and she glanced sidelong at him.
“Whatever you’re planning,” his voice low, “don’t. Just go back to the palace. I’ll fend them off. Go straight to Fang and Angler; they’ll protect you.”
Although there was pure kindness in his words, they infuriated her.
She was sick and tired of being protected.
Sick of feeling powerless. Sick of not doing anything.
It ended now.
Lyra reached for the thread of gold around her heart with slow, sure movements.
She had observed from her lessons with Nerida that it only took a tiny bit of pressure to pluck the thread.
“Lyra, I know what you’re thinking,” Drystan began again. “No.”
It was too late.
She ran a finger across the thread, staring at the acolytes that closed in on them.
“Die,” she whispered.
But her fury rose like a rising tide and overtook her.
She was powerless against herself and succumbed to the passion of it, pressing harder against the thread. She imagined her talons pressing into their flesh, splitting their veins open, and watching their life force spill out of them.
Drystan watched in horror as the acolytes clutched their throats. Their blood spilled out in thick ribbons.
There were a dozen of them, and the water turned to chum in the blink of an eye.
“Lyra!”
Her name came out of Drystan like boulders colliding.
It was so loud it shook the reef.
It was the last thing she heard as darkness tugged her into its cool embrace.