“You couldn’t just slake your lust with Fae, could you?” she sneers. “You had to pollute your bloodline withthat.”
She spits, the glob landing inches from me.
“Kill the baby first, brother,” she screeches. “Every breath it takes is an offense. A stain. An abomination!”
I barely have time to process the words before I hear a heavy thud.
Amara.
Her body is dropped without care onto the stones.
I stop breathing.
My eyes lock on her. I scan every inch, searching,beggingfor a sign of life and then the Golden Son is hurled down beside her. He groans, drops to his knees, head bowed.
He glances my way, but only briefly before turning to her. Reaching out. Touching her arm like he has every right to know the feel of her skin.
Rage burns through my veins.
I would tear the flesh from his hand if I could.
But she stirs.
The smallest shift. A twitch of her fingers.
Relief crushes me like a tidal wave. She’s alive.
Vasheeth paces nearby, her eyes scanning the Mor’Thravar ranks. Then she halts.
“Where is Vashar?”
Silence.
One male shakes his head, then nods once…toward Amara.
Realization takes a breath to land and when it does, I see it ripple across Vasheeth’s face. Vashar is not coming back. Killed. By my wife.
That grief... that fury... that blood vow begins in her eyes.
Her hand drops to her hip. The dagger there is already whispering for vengeance.
She draws it, slow and sure, steel gleaming beneath the stormlight.
Modok and Nyraxes don’t even glance her way.
They’re still lost in their sick fascination with my daughter.
They don’t see Vasheeth cross the stones toward Amara, dagger poised to strike.
“Modok!” I shout, the word ragged. “Nyraxes!”
But both ignore me.
All I can do is watch helplessly as Vasheeth reaches Amara and hovers over her.
The Golden Son lunges to intercept, but he’s too slow. She kicks him hard, and he flies backward, skidding across the stone.
No.
