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Closing my eyes, I focused on the energy pulsating within me, seeking the wounded recesses of my mate’s body. The air seemed changed, fraught with the unspoken language of our joining.
A current passed through me, an invisible bridge spanning the gap between souls. Within my mind, I felt the raw edges of Draven’s injuries as I traced the path of the branch that had pierced through him.
His pain echoed through my senses and fueled the urgency of my efforts.
I could kill, yes, but I could also heal.
The grove became a cocoon, shielding us from the outside world as the palliative power within me coalesced.
The moment hung suspended. An aura of light enveloped us. The grove crackled with unseen energy.
And then, like the echo of a fading song, it was done.
Draven stepped towards me, a hand pressed to his chest. The rips in his gambeson were still there. But the flesh beneath was whole once more.
“Faster than a healer,” I remarked.
“Or to wait for me to heal,” he agreed. “But you’ll have spent yourself. You had hardly anything left to give, Morgan. You should have saved it. Not expended it all on me. I would have been fine.”
I shook my head stubbornly. “Not good enough. I couldn’t risk it.”
Not when he was the one I needed most by my side, now and always.
I was shivering. He pulled me to his chest, and I felt my body relaxing. “Besides, surely the battle’s almost over.”
Seeing Tuva had changed everything.
Not only had the owl brought me Excalibur, with her very presence, she had brought us word of our friends.
There was hope. If the bird was here, Guinevere and the others would not be far behind.
But looking beyond the grove, I had only enough time to scan the battlefield and confirm that Pendrathian and Myntran troops had indeed joined our allies before the next storm swept in.
CHAPTER 12 - MORGAN
It was no natural gale.
The promise of victory that had hung in the air unraveled with the storm’s arrival, birthed from the unforgiving sea to the north of coastal Brightwind as sheets of rain began to fall.
The silver strands of water were illuminated by flashes of malevolent lightning. Overhead, the silent moon had vanished, replaced by clouds and the heavy rumbling of thunder.
Then the wind began. A killing draft surged forth over the coastal cliffs, slicing like an invisible scythe through ranks of foe and ally alike.
Soldiers were lifted into the air like leaves then tossed to the ground.
Up in the sky, even the riders on their raptors and battlecats were not spared. The wind struck them, carving through bodies like knives and sending riders and mounts tumbling down.
Frozen, I stood with Draven, my gaze fixed upon the approaching wind.
Small flames flared in my palms. But what was fire against a storm such as this, even if I could conjure enough to somehow make it meaningful?
The first gust had died down. Now we saw a second wave of wind sweeping across the plains again. Those who had somehow survived the first time were now being swept away.
“Run,” Draven commanded. “We have to run, Morgan.”
Yet something held me. Cold fury was welling up inside. This was my father’s doing. He had lured me here to our ally’s side. Sent my own brother after me. And then, even when I had killed my own kin in self-defense, he would not stop.
He would not relent.
