Page 20 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

It quickly became clear that I didn’t have enough in me to do much more than stop the bleeding from killing him outright. In my present state, it would take a full week or more to get him back on his feet. It was a good thing he was unconscious. What I was doing to him was probably excruciating.

As Fate would have it, the thought was premature. A strangled groan suddenly tore from his throat.

Oh no.

His body arched under my hands as I struggled to hold him in place. Then his lashes fluttered, and for the barest moment, dark eyes so blue they were almost purple fixed on mine.

One heartbeat of staring back was enough to strip away every scrap of emotional armor I wore. I felt seen. Like he was able to absorb every detail of my being—past the rain drying on my skin, past the freckles sprinkling my nose and cheeks, down to what made me me.

Another shock rippled through my body, lighting up every nerve ending, making goosebumps rise across my arms and neck. Except this shock seemed to have affected him too, because his eyes softened even as his entire body shuddered once beneath me.

I stared back as my own eyelids grew heavy, my magic tugging me down. My vision swam as the world tilted. As I collapsed forward onto his chest, surrendering to magical exhaustion, I swore I saw shadows at the edges of my vision, wrapping around me like a pair of arms in an embrace.

Chapter 8

Owain

Agony dragged me back into semi-consciousness—white-hot and yet ice-cold at the same time. Impossible pain crawled along my nerves like tiny blades. A dozen more daggers seemed lodged in my ribs, making every breath a punishment for surviving.

Air scraped down my throat like broken glass, and I latched onto the rhythm of it before the pain could swallow me whole. In. Out. Still breathing. Not dead. Yet.

My mouth tasted of sleep and old blood. Were I not so parched, I would’ve spat out the bitter taste immediately.

I hardly dared to breathe, concentrating on every creak and shuffle around me. I thought I might be able to open my eyes, but I wouldn’t, not yet. If anyone was watching, they’d think me unconscious. Better to keep whatever slight advantage that offered. Even injured, I could still kill someone who came too close, but I had to make certain they deserved it first.

Where was I?

All I remembered was clinging to my stallion’s back with every ounce of strength left in my body, pain, always pain, and then darkness and the sting of cold. Had I been pulled off my horse and captured? Had the raiders or the Assembly decided to ransom me back to Berian?

If the Assembly’s interrogators wanted something, they would act as if they were helping me get better—at least at first. If they’d taken me alive, it was because someone had decided I was worth more breathing. I would already be dead on the road if that was what they wanted.

I flexed my fingers. They answered, slow and clumsy but free. No iron on my wrists, no pull at my ankles. Nor did I hear the regular footfall of guards.

From the sense of the world around me, I was indoors. I smelled a hearth burning, heard the creaking of wood beams bending to the storm that had broken overhead as I lay mangled in the saddle. The surface beneath me was wood, not the stone of a dungeon. The slight give beneath my shoulder blades felt like fabric.

Then another scent reached me. Baking spices and, faintly, citrus—the sweet kind sold in the southern ports—mingled close in the air. Unexpected. It was a shock as much as it was a balm to my senses.

Not rot, piss, or blood. Not a dungeon. Clean.

It smelled like somewhere a person actually lived. Like something worth coming home to—a thought so foreign it nearly startled me back to full consciousness.

The smell was strong enough to mask my blood and unwashed skin. I savored it, drawing it into my lungs slowly in a moment of private indulgence, enjoying the peace it brought me through the pain.

I exhaled only out of necessity.

Even with my injury weakening me, my ever-restless magic stirred toward it with something like instinct. That was exactly the kind of foolishness that got men killed. Too safe. Too tempting. This was a lie. Had to be.

I couldn’t rest easy. I could feel that my cloak was gone. My armor too. I was shirtless, my trousers plastered to my body with rain. Fabric at my side—bandaging?—pulled tight with every breath. Someone had treated me…carefully, from the feeling of it.

I pried my eyes open, yet only darkness greeted me. It might’ve been night, but heavy exhaustion was forcing my eyes closed once more.

If this was a cell, it was an odd one. If this was rescue…by whom?

A pleasant weight lay across the uninjured side of my chest. Not a blanket, not my cloak…

For one disoriented moment, I couldn’t decide if I was dreaming because what I was feeling was soft skin, warm and undeniably real.

The realization drifted through the fog of my mind—heavy, confusing, strangely comforting—as if my body recognized something my mind hadn’t yet caught up to.