Page 200 of Blade of the Nightking

When he could wring no more moisture from the cloth, I stripped off my own shirt with trembling fingers and twisted it between my hands. Water gushed into my mouth. Not enough—never enough. But it was something.

I thrust it toward him. He hesitated, making to pull away, but I grabbed his wrist. “If you die, I die,” I croaked.

His eyes locked with mine as we knelt together in the hell we'd become trapped within.

“If you die, I die,” he rasped. His wet, pruning fingers closed over mine, his hand every bit as cold as my own. He took my shirt and drank from a single measured press of the cloth.

Rain streamed down his temples and dripped from the tip of his nose as he handed it back to me and gave a small nod of thanks. Then he pulled his cloak over his bare shoulders once more and started walking. He made no move to take his shirt back.

I forced myself upright and followed.

As we trudged onward through the rain, I kept the sodden shirts clenched in my hands, sucking whatever moisture I could from them whenever thirst became unbearable.

I'd deal with the embarrassment later.

If there was a later.

I'd become so consumed by the miserable task of putting one foot in front of the other that I didn't even realize Rìan had stopped until he caught my arm.

He looked as exhausted as I felt. Rain streamed down his face, his features drawn tight with strain, the past three days etched into every part of him. Yet as he stared into the downpour, something shifted. A spark kindled inside him.

My gaze followed his, and I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sight of the two hooded figures standing ahead of us in the rain.

People. Out here.

My fingers closed around Rìan's forearm, my nails biting into his slick skin.

The person standing before me did the same.

I froze. The figure remained motionless, a hand wrapped around the arm of its companion in precisely the same way mine gripped Rìan's.

Slowly, blinking water from my eyes, I stared harder.

Something wasn't right. The rainfall itself seemed strange. Droplets slid downward between us in shimmering trails, gathering together and running in rivulets that clung to something invisible. Not air—a surface. A surface so impossibly clear that I hadn't seen it at all.

Understanding slammed into me.

The figures weren't standing before us.

We were standing before them.

A mirror.

My gaze lifted. And kept lifting.

A colossal wall rose above us, its polished surface reflecting the salt flats and storm-dark sky with such perfect clarity that it appeared to vanish entirely.

Beside me, Rìan released a long, shaking breath. When I turned to him his eyes were shining—not with magic. With relief.

"Illyra."

CHAPTER 42

The guards barely spared us a glance as we slipped into the city and joined the steady flow of people moving through the streets.

Rìan led the way with his hood pulled low over his face, though it hardly drew notice. All around us, others did the same. Hoods, veils, scarves, masks of polished silver and mirrored glass—it seemed concealment was as common here as breathing. And as expected.

My exhaustion was bone-deep, every muscle aching from the journey across the flats, and for the first few moments I genuinely believed fatigue was playing tricks on my eyes.