Chapter 10 Zoraya
TEN
ZORAYA
Vlorn is gone from his protective posture at my door. Fear for him coils in my chest, an aching concern that has nothing to do with my own safety.
I press my palms against my eyes to focus. My fingers ache, and my back protests the hours spent hunched over the standard. The massive black banner should be magnificent, but as I watch, the silver threads continue to flicker weakly. The fortress magic is unraveling faster than I can repair it.
Thunder crashes across the mountains—not weather, but war. The tower vibrates to its bones. I rush to the narrow window and see the enemy spreading across the valley. Leading them in bone-white armor is Oryx Blackmaw.
But my eyes find the lone figure on the main gate, great-sword raised in defiance. Vlorn. Even at this distance, I see his absolute defiance.
Then the first volley hits. Burning pitch splashes against the walls, and the fortress shudders. Each impact sends fresh disruptions through the battle standard, undoing my work in seconds. I need to strengthen the connection. I need more than thread.
My hands shake as I reach for the small knife in my kit. I press the blade to my palm and slice. Pain explodes up my arm, sharp and clean, demanding respect for the sacrifice. Blood wells, flowing freely onto the black fabric.
The response nearly knocks me off my feet. The threads come alive with brilliant light. Stone hardens; cracks seal themselves with audible snaps. Through the windows, I hear enemy mages shriek as their spells rebound off the strengthened walls.
But the effort drains me. My vision blurs, and I have to grip the frame to keep from falling. I wrap my bleeding palm in a strip of wool torn from my skirt, the fabric darkening instantly.
I am so focused on the throbbing of my hand that I almost miss the whistle of the arrow. Instinct makes me duck as the black-fletched shaft thuds into the stone behind me.
That shot came from inside the fortress. Someone has a clear view of the tower and knows exactly where I am. I pull the arrow from the wall; the fletching is precisely bound with dark silk—professional work.
“Zoraya...”
The voice from the stairwell is cold, carrying a casual cruelty that speaks of someone enjoying my fear. I clutch my sewing awl, my palm screaming with every movement, and scan the shadows.
“Little seamstress won’t see dawn,” the voice whispers.
Oryx’s war horns sound again from the valley. Death is calling from the outside, while an assassin stalks me from the dark. I am running out of strength, and fire is at the gates.