Page 95 of Heart of Night
It takes me a moment to understand, but as I do, hope flares in my chest.
Steeling myself with a deep breath, I call upon my magic, dragging the thin rope of water toward me.
It’s a hassle, costing me more than I have left to give, but I hold on, snapping the water like a whip along the corridor.
Horror in their faces, guards leap out of its way, crashing into the iron bars fencing the corridor. I don’t stop to count how many. Too many for sure. It’s an impossibility for me to fight them all and win, but I keep pushing, alternating with the lashes toward the front and the back, keeping both the guards and Ephegos at bay—for now. As long as I have a breath in me, I’ll fight to defend Myron, even if it means I’ll burn out. I won’t lose him again.
The wound in my shoulder makes it difficult to wield the water, and I’ve long given up on my knife. It’s up to me and my strength now.
Unless a miracle happens.
We inch forward, Ephegos on our heels and the guards trying to cage us in, but the only cage is my fear of losing Myron, and that’s the strongest driver pushing me past my breaking point.
I break, and I break, and I break, power draining from me as I aggregate every last drop of water in this Godsforsaken dungeon. From the cells and from the guards’ blood, it creeps to me, weaving into a stronger rope, threading itself around me as I call it to my aid. My skin tingles and heats, the pain originating in the tattoo no longer punishing but a reward, reminding me what I am fighting for.
I count the bars instead of the dead guards dropping where my magic severs their necks, and I wonder if this is Shaelak’s power or that of Vala—water or Crow magic—or both. My legs are unstable as I take more and more of Myron’s weight. He’s about to pass out, and I’m not strong enough to carry him. I won’t leave him behind either, and we’re outnumbered.
“I love you, Ayna.” Myron’s voice kisses my cheek where his head rests against mine, his hair dangling into my field of vision.
“Don’t you dare say goodbye.” The anger in my voice surprises me more than anyone. “We’re getting out of here.” I push forward, one agonizing step after the other, Myron nearly dead weight. “Stay awake. Do you hear me? Fucking. Stay. Awake.” Because the moment he closes his eyes, we’ve lost. “I’m not going back to prison because you need a nap.”
It’s a weak attempt at humor, and the smile hurts, turning into a grimace as one of the guards I’m about to cut down reaches for a knife instead of his sword—and hurls it right at my mangled wrist.
I’ve never known pain like this. Not even when they broke my arm on the way to Fort Perenis—not when they let it heal without setting the bones. Not when I was about to die in the Seeing Forest. The blade slices clean through tendons and bone, and I nearly drop Myron with my other arm. My scream tears through the dungeon. If Erina hadn’t known I was here, he would know now.
But he doesn’t need to come down to this dark, filthy part of his palace. He has his loyal Crow friend to make sure I won’t escape.
Myron grunts his protest as I try to tug him forward, ignoring the agony as best I can as I tuck my hand to my side. My magic is gone, snapped like my bones and ligaments, and retreated into that dormant place inside of me. I doubt I have the strength to call it back.
“Stop!” Ephegos bellows, and the guards freeze immediately. “King Erina wants her alive.”
The guard who hit me lowers the second knife he is now pinching between his fingers, and I heave a breath. A few feet ahead, I can make out the silver light where Myron tore a hole in Silas’s cell. So close. If I can push a little farther…
My knees buckle, and I catch myself against the nearest bars, Myron sliding off my shoulder. He’s still awake, but his eyelids are drooping. “Don’t fall asleep.” It isn’t more than a whisper. I’ve got nothing left. Not even a voice.
Myron’s head rests against my side, his ocean eyes speaking of a freedom that isn’t meant for us. My heart aches for him, for the king who came to save me, and whom I couldn’t save, and a tear wets my cheek as I realize we’re not getting out.
The air reeks of blood and dirt and my own failure as I hold Myron’s gaze for just one moment. One moment longer before they’ll put us back into cells.
“I’m sorry.” Because there’s nothing else I can say.
The forgiveness in Myron’s eyes almost steals what’s left of my composure, and I focus on him and nothing else. This final moment where my blood-caked fingers can tangle in his hair. Where his warmth seeps through my clothes. Where I can feel his heartbeat beneath my palm. Myron’s lids flutter, blocking the view of those beautiful eyes, and my heart shatters.
It takes about three painful breaths until Ephegos’s feathered face appears before me, a gleeful expression so different from the loathing in his eyes shaping his again-human features.
“It’s over, Ayna.” His magic snakes around me as he weaves another one of those barriers, locking us in, and I would have missed the soft cracks and thuds had movement not caught my attention over Ephegos’s shoulder. One by one, the guards drop dead, their necks snapping at Herinor’s silent hand. My heart stutters, eyes shuttering as I try to figure out if I’m seeing things from the blood loss and pain. It wouldn’t be the first time my mind checked out because reality is simply too much to handle.
Ephegos reaches into his tattered jacket, extracting a set of manacles. “Myron isn’t going anywhere, but let’s make sure you don’t get any ideas, Ayna, shall we?”
My spit lands right beneath his eye, and I laugh in his face. It’s more a croak and sounds the slightest bit unhinged, but what do I have to lose?
Wiping his sleeve over his cheek, Ephegos studies me with hatred. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his mask slip so entirely, but it fits. I prefer the honest detestation to the false grins and sugary words. Let’s call things by their name.
“We shall nothing.” I kick out as he grabs my hand, trying to close one manacle around my wrist, and my heel connects with his shoulder, making him drop my hand, which I ball into a fist and throw at his nose in a healthy punch.
My knuckles protest as I keep my hand curled tightly, ready to throw another one, but Ephegos is cursing and spitting blood. He hasn’t noticed Herinor, and that’s the only hope I have—bind his focus on me so the male can kill off the guards one by one. How he keeps them from screaming, I wish I knew. If I live to tell the tale, I’ll ask him to teach me how to do that because the panic in the guards’ eyes as they notice the trail of bodies Herinor is leaving in his wake tells me they didn’t hear him coming either.
He’s two thirds up the corridor, the silver light promising freedom crowning his head and shoulders, and had I not known exactly who he was, I could have believed one of the Guardians has joined us in this humble setting. But Herinor’s growl makes its way through the space, eventually drawing all attention—including Ephegos’s.