Graves coughed weakly, pain radiating from the wound from the jerking movement. He looked down at the wound. It was too bloody to tell if it was deep. He tried to stand but fell back to the ground, knees weak.
"I couldn’t save Father then—but I can save you now," Graves rasped.
The battle didn’t stop for him.
An Umbra charged. Soro swiped out with the fallen sword, giving an anguished roar as he beheaded the Umbra in onefell swoop. It was messy, jagged. Soro wasn’t a fighter—not like Graves.
Soro wrapped his arms around Graves, tugging him to his feet. Graves gasped in pain. "I know, brother. Fuck, I know." Together, they limped around the outskirts of the room until Graves found himself falling back against something hard—a table.
Everything blurred.
"Graves, godsdamn you."
He blinked up at Tharen, whose white hair was wild around his face.
Graves tried to smile. "Sorry."
Tharen ripped Graves’s shirt open to inspect the wound.
Distant sounds of battle filtered through the room. Too far. Or maybe his hearing was messed up.
Tharen placed his palms on Graves’s chest. His back bowed with pain from his touch. It felt like his nerves were exposed.
"It’s not fatal," Tharen spat as he worked. "Fuck you for this—for getting hurt."
Heat grazed the side of his chest, and Graves gasped, trying to jerk away. Hands fell on his shoulders, stilling him. He looked up to find Soro staring down at him, pain in his eyes.
An orange glow tickled the edges of his vision.
"I have to cauterize the wound," Tharen warned.
Graves gave a jerky nod.
Scorching pain ripped through his ribs. He jerked and thrashed—opened his mouth, but did not let any sound escape. The smell of burning flesh filled the room as Tharen seared the wound shut.
When it was done, Graves breathed raggedly, all his attention on the throb of fiery pain at his side.
Tharen loomed over him. "How do you think the little lamb will feel to know you almost died?"
He gasped out, "Didn’t—though."
"You almost fucking did," Tharen snarled. "I’m not going to be the one to explain to her how stupid you were."
Soro and Tharen both helped him sit up. Graves’s chest and stomach pulled uncomfortably. Sweat trickled down his nape. He eyed the room he was in—one of the kitchens. The very walls rattled from the distant sound of Vale’s dragon.
He swung his legs over the side of the wooden table and stood, leaning heavily against the edge. Soro tried to steady him, but Graves brushed him off. He had to do this alone.
"Is it almost over?" Graves asked.
Tharen wiped his bloodied hands on a cloth resting near the wash basin. "Almost. Seven left before Soro got me." Tharen inhaled sharply. "But the fucking number keeps growing. They’ll never stop." He pinned Graves with his cold blue eyes. "Not until they get what they came for."
They both knew what the Umbra were here for.
Graves swallowed. "They’ll never have her. I would die a thousand deaths before they do."
Tharen gave a violent grin, lifting his twin swords from where they were thrown on another table. He spun them in his hands. "Something we can agree on."
56
