Page 191 of Fallacies

At the slam of a door, I manage to roll my head to the side, noting the hall is now empty, and the servant door is closed—the line of Sol safely inside.

Relief mingles with the agony, and hot tears well in my eyes, rolling down my temples and splashing onto the cold marble floor.

The servant passage is closed, and the line is moving, so the ward must be down.

We did it. We did everything we needed to do. My coven can manage the rest. They’re in their hands now, and Callan won’t let anything happen to them.

I certainly don’t want to die—it wasn’t part of the plan. But it was always a risk, I suppose. A potential consequence. And yet, somehow, I can’t find it in myself to care.

Is this what it took? Am I the payment for a hundred lives?

I suck in a ragged breath, looking up at the Rogue towering over me.

Gods, I’d be the payment for ten lives. Three, even.

One, if it were someone I loved.

The hard tread of a boot comes down on my ribs again, and the splintering pain that follows resurrects the blast of dark magic he’d hit me with. It seizes every muscle in my body until I’m paralyzed.

Through my blurred vision, I see his yellow eyes flare, the black vertical slits in the center expanding to wide circles.

“You’re a fucking traitor,” he snarls again, lowering his face to mine. His features are so enraged that he looks animalistic. So far from human that I wonder if the Hound had been wrong—if being a Rogue was indeed a sickness. “You’ve ruined everything we’ve built here! EVERYTHING!” he roars.

It’s only then that I realize my eyes must still be yellow, and he’s screaming at me as if I’m one of them—a Rogue that had been living in the Estate.

Before I can figure out a way to use this to my advantage, he hits me again. Harder than the other times, and a fresh wave of biting pain lances through me. For a blinding second, I fear it will never end. That it will keep tearing through me until my heart can no longer withstand it.

Anger lashes through me despite it. Irritation that he would think, even for one second, that I’m one of them. That I had anything to do with the Sol they left in the dungeons or the cruel conditions they forced them to live in.

“I am…” I grit out, “nothing…like…” Each syllable takes tremendous effort, but it needs to be said. I’m content with it being my last words. “You.”

The Rogue scoffs, a false display of pity pinching his brows. He nods his head, and the movement is blurry. “That’s right,” he confirms. “You’re weak, and I’m strong.” I watch him rear back, a swirl of what I can only assume is my death blow gathering in his hands, slithering through his fingers. “I’m alive,” he growls, proud of the sentiment, “and you’re⁠—”

There’s a burst of motion from the left and something massive plows into the Rogue’s side, slamming him to the floor so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if it cracked the marble.

It takes a handful of long, agonizing seconds for the pain in my chest to subside enough for me to take a full inhale. Even longer for my vision to focus, and for the sickening sound of something being hit over and over again to sharpen in my ears.

I force my elbows beneath me, eyes widening in horror when I see the Hound straddling the Rogue, pummeling his face into oblivion.

All I can see is his back—his black shirt ripped down the side, and his ivory skin stained red. Every visible inch of it is crimson.

There’s a deep gash in his bicep, cutting up his shoulder, but it doesn’t slow him one bit as his fist comes down.

Over and over again.

The sound is nauseating, and each time he rears back, blood flies off his knuckles, splattering the white walls.

“Salem,” I rasp out, pushing myself up to an unstable sitting position.

He doesn’t slow.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The Rogue lies motionless beneath him, turned in a way that I can’t see his face, but with how heavy the Hound’s fists are coming down, I’m willing to bet he doesn’t have much of a face anymore.

“Salem,” I say again, louder this time. My voice is hoarse, but it’s gradually getting stronger. The life funneling back into me is nothing more than a trickle—tiny grains of sand being poured back into the empty end of my hourglass.

The Hound doesn’t answer. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t stop hitting.