Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I drop my hand from his mouth and sweep it toward the sleeping fighters and the stormblades still fighting at the pass, then sweep it towards Ragn and the vulnerable lives depending on us there.
Quin closes his eyes and when he opens them again, he too is staring at all the souls on the line. “He will come. Maybe he’ll be late. But he’ll come.”
I heave to my feet and turn away from him. “Until then,” I say on a breaking voice. “Every death is on me.”
I’m not three feet away when winds snatch me and haul me backwards. I thump against Quin’s chest and his arms grip mine tightly, his voice at the back of my head. “Not on you. On us.”
I jerk forward, but his grip doubles. “Do you think you’re the only one responsible for this?” he growls. “Do you think I haven’t met you halfway at each longing look? That I haven’t dreamed alongside you? That I haven’t justified each moment?”
I stop trying to pull free and stare at one of his hands on me.
His fingers slide up an inch as he speaks in my ear. “Who gave you that dromveske?”
My body is thrumming at his breath skating down my neck.
I whisk around, facing him. “You’re right. It’s on us.”
I take a large step back.
His jaw clenches.
“You know it’s the right thing to do,” I say.
His gaze hits mine sharply, then in a blur of movement he has me over his shoulder and is riding the wind over the camp, all the way to the pass—to the clashing of steel and the stench of fresh blood and the sheltering nook in the cliff.
He deposits me in the nook and I land in a heap. “Why’d you bring me with you—”
“Together we made this mess. It’s our responsibility to make things right. Together.” He offers his hand to help me up; I ignore the temptation to take it, and push to my feet.
I take a deep, frustrated breath. My stomach is sick with guilt and fear of what could happen before Nicostratus shows. And yet. Quin dragging me here. Demanding we be responsible . . . It reminds me of all the times he’s set me back on my path when I’ve strayed. Despite everything, deep inside, it flutters.
I hold my chin up. “What do I do?”
“Warn the stormblades.”
I feel the gust rush over me as Quin sneaks up the cliff in the dark. When he reaches the top and hides from view, I come out of my nook, yelling at the top of my voice. “The cliff’s breaking! Retreat!”
Stormblades and Wyrds alike throw glances to the cliffs to see fine dust like a crumbling cloud sifting towards them.
“It’s coming down,” I yell. “Retreat!”
Soldiers from both sides dig their heels into their horses and race to either side of the pass in time for a loud CRACK to pierce the air.
A stormblade scoops me up as he gallops past and I’m flung over the retreating horse. I watch the cliffs crumble into boulder-like chunks that block the pass.
The soldiers stop outside the clouds of dust and take in the significance. They laugh and throw their heads back towards the gods. They cheer, their spirits revived. I spy Quin returning and merging with the soldiers, coming towards me. I slide off my stormblade’s horse murmuring thanks, grateful for the care he has for his fellow men whether he knows them or not. A significant act of kindness when a single additional moment might have cost his own life.
He’ll have to return here in a day because of me. Because of my dromveske. Because Nicostratus has seen it. Stupid dromveskes. If only I’d never learned of their existence—
I stiffen.
“What is it?” Quin says, reaching my side.
I snap my gaze to his. “Take me into Portael. I know how to stop—”
Movement at the top of the cliffs has me narrowing my gaze on a distant figure. “I thought the cliff face was too smooth to climb on that side?”
“That’s not a Wyrd,” Quin murmurs.
“It’s not?”
Quin is quiet and there’s a tightness to it that has me asking. “Who is it?”
“I saw him while I was bringing down the rock. I stopped him from venturing where he’d get hurt.”
My pulse is pounding now, and I have a queasy feeling. “Who is it?”
“He was up there alone, collecting healing plants.”
I rock back on my heel. “Florentius?”
Quin inclines his head.
Florentius is in Harmoria. No, on the outskirts, between it and us. He’s . . . being used by the Wyrd camp, like I am by the Skeldar side, healing . . .
“What about Akilah? Why didn’t you bring him to our side?”
“He wouldn’t come.”
“Akilah?” My voice is thin.
Quin’s eyes meet mine and look away, that look speaking the words before he does. They’re holding her hostage.