Teeth gritted, I roll my shoulder, using the agonizing grind of pain to gauge the exact whereabouts of whatever I left in there before I cauterized the wound. If I can get it out, I might break my fever. Survive long enough to reach the Mists.
Atone.
My right hand trembles around my pre-fired dagger, still achy from being torn through, lacking the strength to clench properly. It’s one thing to cut yourself open. Doing it with a floppy hand is another beast entirely, but I have no choice.
I angle the tip against my puckered flesh, grit my teeth, and plant pressure down the blade, breath held as the sharp metal splits past skin and already ravaged muscle. Like stabbing a hunk of cooked meat to see if the juice still runs pink.
Not mine. But given the raging throb seeded deep in the general vicinity, I’m unsurprised to see yellow puss glug around the silver blade, oozing down the front of me, chased by a rush of blood.
Despite my urge to scream, I hold my breath, not wanting to mark myself as easy prey for whatever’s skulking nearby.
Don’t wanna make it too easy for them.
My grip on the weald trembles so much I almost drop it. Darkness clouds the corners of my vision, but I don’t stop pushing until the blade is nearly through the other side of me.
Pulling it out is harder, like sliding against a coarse grain. Painful enough that my head kicks back against the stone as my throat threatens to loosen.
The blade slips free.
I droop, shuddering with such violence I almost topple to the side, letting the dagger fall from my wet grip. I don’t allow myself a moment to breathe or think or fucking feel before I bite the glove from my right hand and push two fingers in, goring through my ravaged flesh.
Time blurs as I close my eyes and dig, voiding the pain as best I can, my head becoming lighter.
Colder.
Even the howls grow quiet, like they’re moving farther away. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
My finger grazes something sharp, pumping my heart with hope.
I wedge my other finger around, pinch the object, andpull. They squelch free, boasting a black stone splinter.
An immediate sense of ease washes over me as I swallow a sob of relief. The feeling’s short-lived, my gaze moving past the wet splinter to the Mists beyond—suddenly so much farther away. As though Clode justheaved the mightiest breath of her existence and blew them almost out of sight.
It would take a miracle for me to reach them before I die of starvation or get preyed upon. A realization that’s like the heel of a boot grinding me into the snow, loosening a pathetic whimper that makes me want to punch myself.
My vision smears as my head flops back against the stone, the warmth leaking from my shoulder a quiet comfort in this frozen expanse of black and white. Like a soft hug while death quietly takes your hand and gives you a gentle tug—
Not yet, Veya.
Not.
Fucking.
Yet.
I snarl, jerking straight.
Another howl rips across the plains, answered by a beast that sounds as though it’s coming from a different direction.
Perhaps they’re circling …
Wonderful.
I have no doubt that if I were to focus my gaze on my surroundings, I’d see whatever’s hunting me. Likely crouched close to the snow, skulking nearer with each slow beat of my heart. But they can’t have me until I’ve made some of thisright.
I lift the weald to my weeping wound until flame meets flesh.
Melts it.
