Chapter 95
Faylinn
My hands shook uncontrollably as they hovered over Rohak’s prone form, blood from the slash in my forearm dripping onto his tunic. His chest wasn’t rising and falling as it should—it stuttered and hitched before deflating and pausing.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Not thinking twice, I grasped the neck of his tunic in each hand and pulled as hard as I could, the threads popping and tearing as I split his tunic in half to expose his chest. My breath caught in my throat as I was met with the sight of mottled and bruised skin, the natural olive pigment almost completely swallowed by black and purple.
“Hold on, Rohak,” I muttered as I dipped my tremoring fingers in the blood of my forearm again before quickly drawing runes of healing and support on his chest and down his abdomen. My fingers slipped over the ridges of his muscles, and I held back tears at the extent of his injuries.
A patient. He’s a patient. Separate the emotion from the action.
I chanted my mother’s words over and over in my mind, a ritual that usually worked to settle and focus my mind. But not today. Not now, as the early dawn light exposed what were almost certainly life-ending injuries on the man I loved.
Love.
There was no other emotion to describe how I felt about the grumpy General.
Deep, ardent, soul-crushing, life-altering love.
Pure devotion.
And I was watching him die.
My breath hitched on a sob as I prayed with everything I had to Fate to spare him. But the longer I watched, the more erratic his breathing became.
They’re not working.
I inscribed more on his skin, willing my own life to seep from me and infuse him.
But nothing worked.
I watched, helpless, as his breathing became more shallow, his chest rising and falling in longer intervals.
I sat back on my heels, one shaky, bloody hand covering my face as I opened my mouth on a silent scream. My other hand scrambled backward, and I came in contact with another cold body. I turned suddenly and saw Gisei. Her lips were blue, her skin cold and clammy, death obviously taking her into its embrace.
Trails of blood were drying into a dark brown beneath her nose and from each ear and, suddenly, it made sense.
Mage Sickness. He burned out his Vessel.
“Fuck,” I swore and gripped each side of my hair, not caring for the dust and bodily fluids that would crust on the strands.
In the middle of my crisis, a blood-curdling scream sounded across the battle-filled courtyard. My head shot up of its own accord just as the vapors of Pain Magic disintegrated against myshield. A man stood a few feet from me, a sneer written on his hateful face as he tried, again, to attack me. I wasn’t worried—about him, at least—my shield would withstand more than magical attacks. It was practically impenetrable.
What did concern me, though, was the second scream that accompanied the first. It reminded me of Isrun, of the screams of terror and panic and pain that were wrenched from the throats of our people.
But the voice—that voice I would know anywhere.
Ellowyn.
My heart broke at the pain and suffering laced in her pleas.
And there’s nothing I can do.
I saw Lex and Ilyas rushing toward her, but they’d be too late.
The feeling of utter helplessness washed over me a second time.
