Page 136 of Ashen Wings

It’s responding. Reaching. Singing through the marrow of my bones like it’s been waiting my entire life for this moment.

I, Nova Lindwen, am the guardian rider.

The truth hits like a blade lodged between my ribs. Everything inside me—rage, grief, loneliness, love, strength, courage—collides into one cosmic implosion.

I want to vomit, to scream, to tear the world open with my bare hands. More than all of those things, though, I ache to reach for the egg. Every cell screams to answer the call thudding through my veins like a second heartbeat.

“You see me now.” A whisper on the wind wraps itself around me and cocoons me in a brief moment of peace. That voice, so familiar, like a pang of homesickness in my side. It called to me twice before, and still I chose to stay ignorant. In Dracae Torr’s tomb. Then again through Astora’s Water.

Fuck, the guardian has been here all along, begging in whispers for me to turn around and face her.

“I see you,” I whisper back.

Samkiel’s smile is a thin, satisfied line over his face. “Well, now that you know, I believe it's time you met Morvayne.”

The soldiers wrench my arms back, tearing a muscle in my shoulder, and my vision fractures into shards of agony.

I buck, twist, fight, squirm with every scrap of violence still raging through me, but it's no use. My body quivers, entirely spent. My limbs drag like they’re filled with sand.

Samkiel steps behind me, one hand fisting my hair, yanking my head back to bear my throat.

“Any last words, Nova Ceti?”

The cold kiss of metal touches my skin.

I need to move, to escape, to steal back the egg. My body refuses to obey. My fingers claw at the dirt, and my legs tremble uselessly. Samkiel’s knife presses harder. Skin rips. A bead of blood trails the curve of my throat.

Then a sound rages through the air, like the sky itself ripping open. A roar—deep, ancient, and furious—tears through the clearing. Wind slams into us all, scattering ash and grit. Samkiel freezes, his blade pausing just shy of my artery.

Every soldier snaps their head up. The ground shudders. The skies sob.

A shadow blots out the moon.

No, not a shadow. A leviathan Blightfang with teeth bared and claws spread. On his back a soulless rider with vibrant crimson eyes.

Tenebris hits the ground with a force that shakes dust from every peak on the godsdamned continent. The men lucky enough to avoid his claws fly through the air like streaks of red in the starlight. Those who can’t run are flattened to nothing more than blood and broken bones.

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF HER!” Jace roars, leaping from Tenebris’s saddle. Soldiers plow toward him, their weapons trembling against the cosmic force dripping from his form. Black ink stains his fingertips, elongated canines glint in the moonlight. Man after man loses themselves to my ruthless nightmare barreling toward us.

Samkiel grip falters enough for me to wrench myself free and I choke on the fresh air, gasping and retching.

Then something else cracks from the dark surrounding us, and I freeze. Papery bodies, deathly howling and yipping. Lurkers. Hundreds…no, thousands of them. The first wave hits Samkiel’s men before they can even scream. Skin shreds, teeth rip into flesh. Soldiers are lifted into the air, pinned to the ashen earth, torn limb from limb. Their symphony of agony drowns everything out.

Jace rushes Samkiel, paying no mind to the chaos surrounding us. I force myself to my feet, breath torn from my chest, blood trailing down my throat, and stare at the man who came back for me.

The man who always would. Even when I don’t deserve it.

Sight of him revives my spent muscles and I raise the dagger at my feet. I don’t linger on the brutal swarm of lurkers feasting on Samkiel’s men, nor do I question why they haven’t yet attacked us. They watch Jace with hungry eyes, obedient and eager, like he commands them.

My king of the damned.

My heir of midnight.

Mine.

My heart flutters as I track him through the sea of soldiers, tearing throats and hearts, and lungs from bodies. Crimson cloaks leech into the ground, stained a darker shade of red as blood and bile seeps from open wounds. His rage is a godsdamned massacre, but it’s also mine—wholly, forever. He’s alive. He breathes. His heart beats.

And thus so does mine.