I may be human. I may be breakable and temporary, but I refuse to be weak.
Turning, I rush to the mantel and reach for the sword my father cast for my mother. I grip the handle with my bloody hand, too numb with anger to feel anything as I rip the sword from the wall.
The silver blade shimmers against the fading embers of the fire, and the blue vein that cuts down the middle swims. It shimmers like the stars on a cloudless night. Lifting the sword, I find it lighter than I expected. It slices through the air like it’s moving through water, and I swear it hums.
The sound of swords clashing intensifies, so I hurry to the door. Callum has been training me to fight since the rebels were first spotted on the shore,just in case.The way he said it made it sound like it would never come to this.
What isthisanyway?
The end?
“The end finds us all eventually. Some quicker when they refuse to stay put.”
A whisper of doubt.
I swing the door open and find my father surrounded by three males. They’re all wearing the same white cloaks, tunics, and pants as the one last night. With the drifting snow, they easily blend in. Which explains how they managed to sneak into the village in broad daylight to stage an attack.
Except now their white tunics and cloaks are speckled in blood.
Dad’s blade clashes with one of the rebels’ blades. Thankfully,there are only the three rebels in the street. But I suspect it won’t be long before there are more as screams slowly creep toward us.
One rebel swings, and Father ducks, managing to slice his sword upward just in time to sink his long blade into the male’s stomach. In the Ley Court, that type of wound would heal quickly, but here, it’s a mortal blow. His knees buckle, and he drops to the ground.
His breath leaves his lips as his life leaves his eyes. A final exhale before his spirit dances with the wind. And then, he’s gone.
Another cold, lifeless body on an island made for them.
A second male takes a swing at Father, and while Father counters it, I sense him growing weaker. His movements slow; they’re not as precise. Both males must see it as well because they close in at once, knowing he can’t survive them both.
“Stop,” I yell as a blade meets Father’s arm.
One of Father’s swords falls, but he manages to keep his hold on the other.
My grip is slick on my mother’s blade as blood drips down the handle.
The two rebels freeze; their chilling, dark eyes cut my way. I’ve never seen Fae with such dark eyes before. They’re usually so bright. So full of color and life and magic. If the rebels’ eyes are any indication of the state of magic in Vaelier, then it makes sense why they don’t fear coming to Alyssium.
Father uses their distraction to his advantage, stepping to the left and swinging for the throat of the Fae in front of him. But he’s too slow. Or they’re too quick. The male moves, narrowly dodging the sharp tip as he plunges a dagger into Father’s shoulder.
“No!” I rush forward.
“Elorie. Ru?—”
His words die on his tongue as the second male drives a blade straight through his chest.
“Father.” My scream echoes off the cobblestones.
Birds cut from the trees.
My vision tunnels as my father’s body slumps to the ground. He’s barely moving apart from the slow, labored rise and fall of his chest. Blood trickles from his mouth, and he’s fading quickly.
I need to get to him. Nothing else matters.
Not the wind whipping my hair across my cheeks.
Not the snow beneath my boots.
With the blade tight in my grip, I step forward, refusing to give up.
