1. A Story of Survival #4
I smiled through the pain. Our shared love of reading medieval poetry nightly before going to bed was the only warm thing left in the world. The chill intensified. Gritting my teeth, I fought through the agony. I was the closest I’d ever been to success, while balancing on the edge of failure.
“Zora, you my best friend,” Squire cawed sadly as he pressed his feathers against my forehead, trying to warm me.
I jerked in agreement.
I will survive.
I will survive.
I will survive.
Long minutes bled away, time the cruelest bastard of all. I screamed, cried, and swore as magic filled me. It left a trail of frost across my organs. Clouds of silver burned as they streamed out of my mouth, nose, and eyes.
Squire curled up atop my head and fell asleep. Muscles cramping, bones brittle, I could do nothing but convulse with shivers.
Silver slithered away, and the haze slowly receded from my vision.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
No bubbling sounds came from the empty, stained tank.
The ritual was over.
Drip.
Drip.
With a herculean effort, I looked down at the tube attached to my right forearm. It was clear, and no liquid sloshed through it. I looked at my left arm.
Drip.
A single droplet hovered at the end of the tube, then fell into the bucket of my extracted blood. The room reeked of sweat and despair.
I will not give up.
A hazy veneer of emerald light formed the spectral outline of a being with long flower-filled hair, effeminate features, and an imposing masculine build. They smelled like . . . fighting to the death for the greater good in the middle of a snowy forest?
Sharp pain lanced down my face from eyebrow to lip; my silver scar was on fire.
Everything went dark as I passed out.
* * *
Something rocked beneath me. Coarse material scratched against my back, and wheels squeaked in movement. Eyelids heavy and raw, I scraped them open, eyes watering from the warm light filtering through burlap material and . . . a zipper?
What the hell?
I was in a bag, and everything hurt.
Talons pricked my shoulder as Squire’s brown-and-white face came into view. “Zora?” he chirped.
Awareness hit me.
I really am too fortunate to die.
I rolled, caught in the bag, into a free fall.
I slammed into the hard floor, unable to use my extremities to break my descent.
Squire flapped his wings desperately in the confined space, hitting both of us.
I tried to speak, but air just whistled through my open lips.
Clawing at the fabric, I fought to get out.
“She’s survived the unsurvivable Iron Ritual!” a muffled voice screamed, and all hell broke loose around me.
“How’s that possible?”
“Get the Marshal!”
Boots pounded. Someone pulled down the zipper. Brightness scorched my eyes as scarlet uniforms leaned close, the soldiers’ mouths open with horror.
“Me survive?” Squire hooted as he tucked himself into a small ball, hiding behind my hair. Mean-looking Shadow Swords shoved the soldiers away, glaring down at me as they parted like water, falling into perfect attention.
The Marshal approached, leaning over me. “You lived . . . How . . . special.”
Her eyes flashed with confusion, and she turned to whisper something in a Shadow Sword’s ear.
I shouldn’t be alive right now. Against all odds, my gambit had paid off.
I now had Knight magic.
I could calm a storm.
The old god might be dead, but I wasn’t.
An eerie cold breeze whispered across my face. Neck aching, I lifted my head, searching through the sea of soldier legs, trying to find the source.
At the end of the hall, Tarantula radiated a terrifying capacity for violence. Expensive silver leather boots, covered in matching silver scales, gleamed different from the rest; prisoner chains draped across them, catching the light; DANGER was stretched across a wide chest.
His shackles were a joke.
Why is he staring at me like that?
He looked even paler than usual, which should have been impossible. He swayed slightly before he caught himself, shaking his head like he was coming out of a daze. Shadows sank into the deep hollows of his cheeks, giving him the appearance of a reanimated corpse.
As I held Tarantula’s cruel gaze, another gust of wind blew across the front of my throat. His concentrated power caressed one spot.
When I was only fifteen years old, the then High Prince—the current reigning Emperor, Aleksander the Sadistic—bit my flesh and left a scar of his teeth. Corruption leaves a stain.
Tarantula smirked like something was funny. It was the same expression he’d worn after he’d murdered Aurora and chased me through the Barren Forest.
Purposefully I brought my hand out of the body bag and rested my fingers across the coarse material over my stomach. Tarantula tensed with barely constrained fury. Satisfaction filled me. He knew it was the exact location where I’d shoved my bone dagger deep into his gut.
Two months ago, I captured Tarantula, Aleksander’s strongest Royal Mage, and joined the Crimson Army so I could destroy the Draconis Empire; now I had the magic to make it happen.
The Marshal crouched down. “Don’t get too excited. We’ll see how you do on the test . . . before we dub you a Knight.”
Wait. What test?