His gaze flicks to Orán then. “A little help here, Brother.”
Orán leans against the doorway, his gaze fixed on me. Our eyes meet for a beat, then his look slides to Pollock. “Oh, now you want my help.” His voice is dry as bone. “No. I think not. Instead of de-escalating, you’ve only made things worse.”
Power begins to bleed from Pollock as he gets to his feet. Think rationally, Eridessa. This doesn’t need to be a fight to the death. I was searching for answers, unlocking your past to see how those people corrupted your thoughts.
“So you can what?” I spit, “Do the same damn thing?”
I reach underneath the counter and tear the spear from its placement. I draw it back quickly, then the spear leaves my hand before Pollock can so much as take another breath.
The tip punches through Pollock’s abdomen with a wet, divine thunk, the blessed metal sinking deep enough that the back end hits the wall and the shaft rattles. For one suspended heartbeat, the room goes still.
He looks down in disbelief. Even the wolf inside him seems stunned as dark blood spills over the carved runes etched into the shaft. The holy metal smokes where it rests inside him.
Orán inhales sharply.
Pollock lifts his gaze to mine.
I smirk. “Still think I need saving?”
A growl builds and tears from him—no longer polished by wit or control. He grips the spear with both hands and rips it free in one violent motion, spraying blood everywhere.
Without breaking eye contact, he hurls the spear. It slices across my cheek, takes off the tip of my ear, and buries itself into the wall beside my head with a thunderous crack, the shaft a mere inch from my face.
A warning.
A promise.
That, my dear mate, was the last time you’ll spill my blood without consequence. His power, his influence over my emotions, doubles, and I fight to hold on to my anger, but it’s like fighting through a balm of quicksand.
A hymn comes to me then. One of Rayla’s favorites.
I begin to sing it—not for comfort, but to drown him out. To focus my thoughts. To steady my hands. To recall vows buried deep in the bones of who I am.
A Chosen.
The Chosen. The last of my Order.
Turning, I rip the painting from the wall and seize the whip strapped to the back of it before dropping it to the floor. The silver comes alive in my hands as it unravels, liquid-bright and humming. I test it once, flicking my wrist, then bring it overhead and crack it.
“Blessed daughters,
born of strife, born of flame,
carry light where night has risen,
speak His mercy,
guard His name.
“When the earth is torn,
when the faithful kneel alone,
let your hearts remain unbroken?—
for no child walks unseen or unknown.”
On the next purposeful strike, the lash whistles through the air and lands across Pollock’s upper body. His flesh splits as easily as silk. The wound is deep and cuts him from throat to chest.
