49. Chapter 49
The door swung open, startling Yareli from her fitful sleep.
She had spent most of her time thinking of a way to break her core.
Augrys had once told her that it required a strong feeling, and there was no greater feeling of hatred than when the first blow came.
It was a gamble, but it was one she was determined to win, even if it forfeited her life early, because at least then she had tried.
Tuom sauntered over, pulling a seat next to her table, holding a letter. He was quiet until he finished reading.
“Do you know what this is?” He waved it in the air, brandishing it like it was a trophy, and it probably was. But she didn’t care.
“Answer when spoken to,” he snapped, hitting her.
She bore the hit, holding her anger at bay; instead, it fanned her wrath, coaxing a greater flame in her.
“It’s a letter.” Her voice was quiet.
He patted her cheek. “You’ve bewitched many.
They only know your lies, ascribing value to you, but they don’t see the truth—you’re worthless.
” He held the letter in the air in front of her.
“Your dear general has decided you are worth more than his idiotic resistance. Isn’t that wonderful?
He cherishes you so much, he would give up his short life’s work. ”
Alarm blared through her, followed by a rush of warmth.
Augrys had offered to give up arms in exchange for her?
No, not just her. Bri as well. The gesture touched her, but—outside of her dying—it was the worst outcome.
Without the Keepers, Izmari would fall to the Watchers, leading to her world’s invasion.
Her family, alongside countless innocents, would suffer because of her mistake.
She steeled her resolve; she lived, or she died today.
Tuom crumpled the letter, burning it in his palm. “Don’t worry. I accepted the exchange. I’ll hand over your corpse, then I’ll end his life as well.” He tapped his chin. “I’ll bury you together. Fools deserve each other.”
Yareli glared at him, stoking the rumbling in her chest. More anger.
More hatred. More, more, more. Like an affirmation, it pounded alongside her heart.
She skimmed through all her memories of Tuom—each strike, each scar, each nightmare she had suffered because of him, she threw them all into the cauldron bubbling in her.
The angrier she was, the greater the pressure in her chest, like a rumbling volcano, readying to burst.
“You deserve no last words,” Tuom said, his blade poised to strike her lower abdomen.
He brought it down, and pain lit her nerves. She grunted, bore the pain, and dove into her inner realm, thrusting every ounce of her hatred into her core’s steel wall.
Fuck. You.
The wall creaked and groaned, then a boom resounded like a cacophony of rushing water, screeching, and shattering glass, and she covered her ears, clenching her eyes shut. When the sound finally receded, when her bones ceased to vibrate, she opened her eyes and gasped. The wall had disappeared.
Magic rushed at her, sweeping her away in its currents. It thundered through her body, flooding her veins with power and an undercurrent of unparalleled joy. She had actually done it, and as her magic surged, she opened her eyes to a shocked Tuom.
“Wh—” he began.
She erupted into flames, burning through the leather straps.
Whipping winds sent Tuom flying backward into the wall, cracking it, and he slumped backward.
Yareli stared at her glowing blue hands, amazed at her magic’s responsiveness.
It swirled around her, its long tendrils stretching and curling in the air.
It caressed her face as though in greeting.
When the cart flew by her, she thought to send a shield Bri’s way.
Tuom stirred, drawing her attention to him, and renewed fury surged through her. The winds howled.
“Is this what I’ve stolen?” She held her hands out, her indignation a steady beat beneath the storm she had summoned. She slapped her chest, spitting the words. “This is mine. And neither Fae nor man will take it from me.”
“You deserve none of it.” Tuom’s voice was edged with fervor, and with struggle, he stood against the buffeting winds. He drew out a sword, his right hand glowing dark green. He scattered her wind with a flick of his arm.
“You aren’t meant to hold such power—”
Yareli didn’t let him finish his sentence. She stomped the ground, and it rumbled in response; rippling like a snake, the earth rose up and crashed into Tuom. He blocked it, annoyance flickering on his face.
“You’ve always talked too much,” she said. “Have you considered that no one cares about what you have to say?”
Coiling magic like a spring under her, she leaped at him, shooting faster than she had in the final challenge.
He raised his sword, intending to cut her down, and she steeled her arm, blocking it.
Clashing metal rang, but she wasted no time driving her other arm into his gut.
He grunted, but he didn’t give any ground.
She punched him again and again, but it was like pummeling an iron board.
He dropped his sword and grabbed her arms instead.
His restraint infuriated her, and she burned hotter until his hands smoked, and he was forced to let go.
But he wasn’t like her previous opponents; he was the First General of the Earth Court, and he showed it, driving his palm into her abdomen and sending her through the air.
A shield kept her from landing hard. She scrambled to her feet, drew magic forward, molded it into a blade, and swung it toward him.
He dodged, grabbing her wrist and tugging her to him.
He brought a knee to her abdomen, and she grunted from the impact. Her wound protested, blood rushing out.
“That stolen magic may be powerful, but you are weak. You can’t kill me. You can’t even land a real blow on me.”
His words were likely meant to be nasty, to remind her of her place. But she was no longer the woman who lay broken on the metal table. She steeled herself, concentrating her magic on her lower half. A half-assed plan was formulating in her head.
She muttered, “You’ll be eating your words.”
Yareli dropped to the ground, gritting through her wrist’s dislocation as she swept her leg across Tuom’s, sending them both to the floor. He let go of her wrist then, rolling onto her, and pinning her arms with his legs. She gasped as he strangled her, his eyes dark with animosity.
“You cannot live,” he said and pressed harder against her trachea.
She bucked, trying to dislodge him, but he was like an unmovable force, intent on prying her life from her. Dark spots danced along her vision; she renewed her efforts to free herself. Her chest tingled, and a wave of vertigo hit her. The ground was moving, and she was slipping, sliding down…
Stop panicking. Concentrate your magic into a ball.
Weni’s voice cut through the static in her mind, and Yareli did as she instructed, ignoring the fire in her lungs.
She imagined the ball, picturing its blue-silver color emitting frigid air like the steel wall that had contained it before.
It rumbled in her, and she understood what Weni intended her to do.
She drew more magic to it, growing it until her hold on it became tenuous, and her vision faded.
Release it, Weni instructed.
She burst into light so potent that, despite closing her eyes, it burned, searing her skin. Tuom’s grip on her loosened, and she took a breath of air, but he remained on her. Her light began to fade.
More, Weni demanded.
She siphoned more, her light pulsating again.
Her core complained, and there was a growing, sharp ache, but she didn’t stop.
Tuom yelled, digging his palms into the ground to keep himself from flying off.
She gritted her teeth and, throwing all her rage into it, she pushed harder until Tuom’s bellow was cut short, and he slammed into the ceiling.
Her light disappeared, and she stumbled onto her feet.
Her side hurt, her head pounded, and her skin was raw, but she kept moving.
Rest would only come after death—Tuom’s death.
He hung from the ceiling, his body embedded in the stone.
She waved her hand and dropped him to the floor, jolting him awake.
She summoned winds to tighten around his body like chains, immobilizing him.
Blood ran down his face in great rivulets, and he spat at her when she leaned down. There was one thing left to do.
“Show me who the traitor is,” she demanded, grabbing his chin and forcing his eyes to meet hers.
Yareli dove into his mind without hesitation.
It was pitch-black for a moment, and she thought she might have failed to penetrate his mind barrier.
Then, torches lit up a long, dirt hallway.
She stepped forward and felt stone underfoot.
Faint indents of cobblestone were beneath a thick layer of grime.
She swiped her hand across the wall, and sure enough, it came back caked with dirt and dust.
Tuom resisted her invasion, the corridor’s walls trembling, and she hurried. Paintings with inscriptions hung on the walls.
Earliest memory.
First victory.
Meeting Lord Astorius.
First kill.
They were his memories, neatly organized and labeled for her perusal, nothing like her lake’s chaotic waters.
She moved past them; the deeper she went, the darker and more erratic the paintings became.
Simple, realistic oil paintings transformed into dramatic, abstract pieces.
She skimmed the titles, pausing at an odd one—an empty canvas painted black, its title reading Endronn.
She raised her hand; her fingers had nearly touched the surface when the walls shook, and the torches flickered.
Hurry. Weni’s voice resurfaced in her own mind. The general is regaining strength.