21. Chapter 21
Things rarely go as planned. Yareli had meant to find August sooner, gotten out faster, and been on her way to someplace safe.
Instead, she was on all fours, gasping for air on a mountaintop with her tormentor.
She clutched snow between her palms. The cold kept her grounded, frozen, holding her turbulent emotions at bay with its wall of ice.
“You’ve been misbehaving.”
She raised her head against the bitter wind that howled and met the dead, coal eyes of First General Tuom of the Earth Court.
He looked like he had months ago, but there was something different about him.
His magic—that she was too acquainted with—felt twisted, darker than it used to be.
It hadn’t been obvious at first; the distorted tendrils, shadowy and reeking of something sour, were but specks in his typical magic presence, but once she noticed them, it was hard to ignore.
He approached her, and the crunch of snow under his boots frightened her.
Those same boots had once crushed her ribcage.
She scanned her surroundings, but there was nowhere to run.
Swirling snow, gray stones, whipping wind.
Her only option was to jump. The idea gave her pause.
She could do it. Although she thought the concept of actually dying was horrifying, death was the better alternative.
Besides, could she really be afraid of death if she were dead?
In an instant, Tuom’s boot was on her back, pushing her face into the snow. The wounds from the explosion earlier stung as the pebbles, hidden beneath the layers of frozen snow, ripped them open again. She grunted.
“When you misbehave, what happens?” Tuom asked.
Yareli turned her head, staring into his hateful face. He wanted her to grovel, to apologize, to debase herself. She wouldn’t say it—the words he had ingrained into her body, that begged to be uttered so the pain would stop.
The pressure on her back increased; she wheezed for air.
He sighed. “Your little time away made you bold again. You think because you found some friends that you’re safe?”
She glared at him, pouring every ounce of hatred into the look, but he remained unfazed.
“Fuck. You,” she spat.
“You’ve forgotten your place. Allow me to remind you.”
He slid his white gloves on, and with a harsh tug, he rolled her onto her back. He removed his boot from her, allowing her to scramble backward on her butt until she hit a wall. Yareli hated those gloves; she wanted to rip them off his hands, roll them in oil, and set them ablaze in his throat.
She followed his gloved hands to a blade sheathed on his hip; he drew it—a beautiful, ceremonial dagger. Diamonds and gold thread woven together created a magnificent handle.
“Let this be a reminder of your place.”
His free hand shot forward, hooking onto her throat and squeezing. He lifted her until her feet no longer touched the ground. She clawed his arm as her lungs begged for air. His eyes were a pair of burning coals, fueled by his hatred of her kind. He drew the dagger back.
“Repent for your existence,” he said before plunging it into her abdomen.
There was a moment of wrongness—an odd sensation that something was somewhere it didn’t belong.
She peered at the steel protruding from her stomach.
Then, her nerves lit up—pain shot through her veins, turning her blood hot and melting her remaining control over her emotions.
She cried out, blood trickling out of her mouth.
Tuom dropped her like a rag doll. Her back thudded onto the snow, and black dots exploded across her vision.
She moaned. The pain was so great, she wished she hadn’t hesitated earlier and jumped.
But now—now that she was in this situation—she couldn’t let herself die.
She wouldn’t let him kill her. She placed her hands over the wound, cutting her hands on the exposed part of the blade. A purple rift opened behind Tuom.
He leaned down, his breath brushed against her ear, and he whispered, “Though you desire death, you cannot die unless I say so. Your dear general will save you, but know it is because I have no need of you yet.”
Her blood boiled over; she slapped him. Tuom’s head snapped to the side.
Momentary silence ensued in which neither of them moved.
Yareli breathed heavily, attempting to regulate the hurt that burned through her, but it ravaged her like the fire had done earlier to the Keepers’ Village.
Tuom, still as stone, blinked as though stunned—not that she cared.
He wiped her blood off his cheek, but his glove only smeared it.
He liked cleanliness, and she had dirtied him with her blood.
Tuom said nothing; his face gave nothing away.
But his eyes? His eyes burned with fury, and she found wicked pleasure in causing him great displeasure.
And despite the distress of her current predicament, Yareli laughed. Fuck him.
He sneered. “Poor, stupid thing. You bring your own misfortune upon yourself.”
He twisted the dagger, and she screamed. Her vision went dark, but he slapped her, startling her awake.
“I’ll collect you when it’s time.” He stepped into the purple rift, leaving Yareli alone on an unknown mountaintop, snow piling up on her with every gust of wind.
Curiously, it melted off of her soon after it landed.
Because despite the freezing chill, she was burning.
Yareli slipped into a dream-like state, losing herself in the anguishing waves of pain, fever, and cold.
Once, she thought she saw a woman standing over her.
Her mournful purple eyes remained with Yareli long after her illusion disappeared.
She endured, clinging to life despite it draining from her.
She wasn’t sure how long it’d been when another rift opened near her. Was Tuom back to finish her off? Had his promise of rescue been a lie, a trick to torture her further?
A familiar head of black hair appeared.
“August,” she murmured. “You found me.”
His face, devoid of his usual iron mask, was downturned in what seemed like anguish. It made her sad.
“Don’t look like that,” she said. “It hurts to see you like that.”
He kneeled next to her, removing her hands from the dagger. He was saying something, but she couldn’t hear him through the growing void surrounding her senses. She was falling, slipping into the comfort of unconsciousness.
“You shouldn’t take it out, you know. I’ll only bleed out faster.”
He picked her up. His heat was a welcome change from the damp snow she had melted into a puddle and lay in.
“I hit him. I slapped that fucker.” She rambled, mumbling a stream of consciousness before she lost her struggle to remain awake. She thought, however, that a drop of hot liquid hit her cheek right before she passed out.