As if mine needed more room to scream.
Again, I’m struck with the vision of Raeve cast in too many spent runes to count. So many layers she was almost as luminous as Slátra herself.
I’m haunted by the words that passed between us on the bog’s shore, feeling as though my chest is ripping wide every time I consider the implications—
No.
If I dig too deep, I’ll break apart until I’m just as scattered as Slátra once was. And right now, we have a job to do.
Pyrok grips my shoulder, squeezing.
I glance back to see he’s not watching me, but the lark—now bashing itself against the cage’s ceiling.
The far corner.
The back.
I mimic Pyrok’s frown.
Either the cage is broken … or—
The hairs on the back of my neck lift.
A whip of wind brings rumbled words straight to my ear. Like Clode just snatched someone’s command and blew it in my direction.
“Gurth aath ahn aileen duh, Bulder … huth-uh.”
My blood turns to ice.
I scan the ground, seeking signs of disruption. Bulder’s so diluted in these parts that it takes him a while to pull together in answer to a command. Certainly for something as solid as a stonespear.
There’s the slightest swirl of disruption between Pyrok’s feet—
I shove him back.
He goes stumbling through the mud, almost dropping the cage before he gathers his footing. “What the fuck?” he mouths, eyes bulging as a blade of stone drives up from beneath the muddy depths—right where he was standing. It doesn’t stop until it’s at our shoulder height, sharp enough it would’ve sliced him through.
Our gazes clash with silent correspondence.
We’ve been noticed …
I shut Rygun out split moments before something strikes the back of my arm, snuffing Bulder’s song. Pyrok whips his hand up to his chest in the same instance, his fingers coming away bloody.
Iron pins.
It’s an effort not to growl so loud I wake the entire nesting ground, gesturing for Pyrok to retreat toward a nearby tree we can shelter behind. Regroup. Maybe cut these fucking pins out.
He’s two steps forward when a large net snaps up from beneath the mud, catching him in its messy grip. He’s lurched skyward—so deep in the mist I lose sight of him entirely.
My blood runs cold.
This is anambush.
FUCK.
Ripping my short sword from the sheath at my hip, I spin, scanning the fog. Squint at numerous smears of red pitched against the white.
I realize I’m surrounded even before the mist pulls away—a brief lull that reveals a ring of Fade soldiers glaring at me through the thin slits in their ruddy helmets, some holding swords or spears. Others, bows with arrows notched and aimed.
