Page 51 of Ashes of Aether

I think the ground might be rushing toward me, but I refuse to let it win.

I force myself to remain upright and wade through the depths of death. I try to avoid the bodies, but I still feel the softness of flesh and the brittleness of bone beneath my boots. The sensation threatens to collapse me, but I cannot save Arluin if I allow myself to faint.

I must find him. Quickly, before Branvir and his magi track me here. I must ensure he escapes Nolderan.

And if he is dead...

No.

He can’t be dead. We made a promise to each other. He wouldn’t break it.

I arrive at the alleyway where Heston’s undead pursued me. I come to a halt upon the spot where Arluin freed me, where he fell.

I scan across the lifeless faces, but I don’t see Arluin’s. Nor do I see his raven curls amid the mountain of corpses.

I try farther along the street. But even when I search the street after that, I still find no sign of him. Neither dead, nor alive.

I remain there for a while, staring down into the stream of bodies.

I should feel relief at not finding Arluin’s corpse. But I only feel hollow. As hollow as I felt while gazing down at my mother’s broken body.

I don’t know where he is, and I have no proof of his fate. And it is the not knowing which threatens to break me.

I must find him. Whatever it takes, I must.

With the street swaying around me, I stagger toward the nearest heap of bodies. Then I begin the task of rolling them away. Each and every one. Not caring how their too-cold skin feels against mine. My mind is bursting from the seams with one single thought: that I must find Arluin. No matter what.

I roll aside an elderly lady, her unseeing eyes staring up at the approaching dawn. Beneath her lies a boy, no older than ten. Dried blood trails across his cheek. Bites mangle his arms. Bone glimpses between the torn flesh.

I don’t linger on him. Because I next spot dark curls.

“Arluin!” I gasp, reaching for him. I pull with all my strength, willing for him to part from the mass of bodies. He comes loose and rolls to me.

My stomach clenches. I think I may vomit. But I don’t. I can’t.

I turn his head toward me. The dark curls fall away—

To reveal a face that looks nothing like Arluin’s. The man’s brown eyes gaze up at me. Unblinking. His nose is too hooked to be Arluin’s, and he’s at least a decade older.

The tension in my stomach slips away. I slump back onto the bloodied street.

For a moment, I was certain it was him. And now I’m grateful it is not. Even if it means another man lies in his place. Another loved one snatched from someone else.

If he isn’t here, amid the stream of corpses flowing through the street, that means he is alive. And if I don’t find him before my father, before Branvir, before the Magi, he will be killed.

I squeeze my eyes shut and block out the noises drifting through the street: the guttural howls which grow fainter and fainter, the crackling of flames which now sounds like distant whispers. Aether flutters through the wind, and after all the magic used and the lives lost last night, the air is even more abundant with it. I draw the humming energy into my fingers.

Then in my mind, I paint Arluin in as much detail as I can. His glossy curls that look as though they’re carved from onyx, his magenta eyes, his bold brows, his soft chuckle as he laughs at something I said.

When his portrait is achingly vivid, I release my spell.

“AminexArluin Harstall.”

I wait. And then I wait a moment longer. But there is no response.

I try the spell again. And again. Yet no matter how many times I try, the only voice in my mind is my own.

If he’s alive, why would he not respond? Why would he let all my frantic calls go unanswered?