Page 177 of The Reaping Rose

But as I glance at a distance, at those figures on the cliff, I trust what I fight for now more than anything I battled for Malachi.

If I fall, so be it. At least I’ll fall for what’s right.

Chapter 60

Wilder

I carve a path of aether through the ravagers blocking my way as I run toward Elorie.

She rushes Fae from their homes, refusing to leave until they’re gone. Sacrificing herself for others like she just can’t help it. Greer works from the other end, trying to speed up the evacuation. But the palemor moves too fast.

I toss out a lasso of aether that wraps its tail, but all it does is slow it down. I can’t hold it back entirely. The tail pulls against me while my heartbeat hammers in my throat. It throbs against my veins, pumping so hard I think it might just stop right here. Maybe the Beating is finally ready to claim me.

Until it does, I’ll hold this line.

I move in a blink, standing between the palemor and the village, dropping to my knees as I throw out a wall of aether. The tail comes crashing down on my magic. Aether splinters; shards rain down.

My fingers tense as it strikes again.

And again.

Cracks form in the wall, but I don’t release my hold.

Sweat drips down the sides of my face as I drain my magic until the well inside me is bare and only flickers remain.

The palemor continues its assault as more ravagers flood from the trees. Screams pierce the beach as warriors fall. Malachi delivers on his promise. Thinning our numbers as my vision does the same. Dark spots form in the corners of my mind where there is usually gold.

Burrowing deep into my magic, I search the pit of myself, where aether was once an endless cavern. It replenishes with every breath, but not fast enough. I’m throwing out more magic than can be restored. I dig and dig, giving it more and more.

I dig until I’m clawing at the bottom of my magic, scratching for more. I reach the depth, my fingers gripping the last shards of aether in the darkness. A sputtering final stand until the aether wall holding back the palemor’s assault breaks in a waterfall.

The palemor’s scaly tail swings down. My magic is but an ember in the darkest pit. My heartbeat hammers in my chest, and bile rises in my throat. Every inhale tastes of blood.

I may be Fae.

I may be king.

But this mortal thundering of my heart does not care about any of those things. It knocks against my ribs, warning me my time is nearing an end.

Not yet.

I reach back, grab my sword, and brace myself on a knee, holding the blade to the sky as the palemor’s tail swings down. If nothing more, I’ll slice one final bit of flesh before I fall.

My sword glints in the night. A gift from Darvel when I finally earned his respect during training. Up until that point, he had me train with carved wooden blades and sticks. He said I would not wield a true weapon until I proved myself worthy. I asked him what it would take to be considered worthy, and he refused to answer.

So day after day, I trained. Atlas’s sword carved my staff down to kindling. Rior snapped my wooden daggers in half. But I didn’t give up or grab a blade. I did as I was told.

Just because I was royal blood didn’t mean I wanted to be treated differently. In Andare, I was just another warrior. I was carved from the front lines of battle. Trained to be a weapon when I was not able to wield one.

It was nearly two years before I was handed a sword, and it was only because a noxen had slipped through the shadows into our training camp. A dark beast of thought, as my mother called them. They play with memories. Once you lose your mind to one, they pierce your temple and steal a taste.

The noxen was slaughtered easily, but spectral foxes had followed it into our camp, intensifying the battle. We pushed them back until there was a single fox curled under a tree with an injured leg.

My blade pressed into the fur at the nape of its neck as the creature stared up at me. Only moments ago, it had been hungry for my blood. But now it cowered.

It would have been so easy to slice its throat. To turn it from predator to prey. Instead, I pulled back. It was no longer a threat, and it was not me it wanted, but food.

The fox was taken to the tents to have its leg fixed, and when I returned to the ring and tried to hand Darvel my sword, he told me to keep it.