Page 103 of On Brutal Thrones

I don’t know what to do.

Eventually, they both regain their weapons. Metal slams against metal, the sound sharp enough to make me flinch. They’re breathing harder now, sweat darkening their hair and sand clinging to their clothes, but neither is slowing enough to give me an answer.

They both look exactly like him.

They both sound exactly like him.

“Stay back, Nyx!”

“Get away from us!”

“Don’t fucking come any closer!”

Each command makes my chest hurt worse because every one of them is something Thorian would say. He would want me away from the danger. He would tell me to get behind him. He would put himself between me and a blade without a second thought.

I clutch my dagger until the hilt bites into my palm, frustration boiling through the fear.

Think.

I know him. I know him better than some magical copy pulled from a lake possibly could.

Except Fake Nyx knew everything I knew. She anticipated every strike, every dodge, every instinct I had. If this creature was made the same way, then Fake Thorian knows how Thorian fights. He knows how Thorian speaks.

He knows how Thorian behaves around me.

But does he know why?

The thought hits me so hard I go still.

Fake Nyx hadn’t cared about me. She hadn’t even truly hated me. She’d been doing what she was made to do, copying and anticipating me until I did something she couldn’t predict.

Fake Thorian might know that Thorian protects me. But only one of them actually loves me.

My pulse pounds in my ears. There’s only one way to find out.

I stumble sideways and let out a cry as I drop hard to my knees.

“Nyx!” they shout together.

Not enough.

I bow forward, clutching myself as if I’m hurt, and scream.

This time, I don’t have to fake all of it.

I think of Lyra being taken. Fenric disappearing with the bridge beneath his feet. Talon following me through those woods against his will. I think of every moment I’ve been terrified in these Trials, every time I thought someone I loved was going to die, every bit of helplessness and grief I’ve shoved down because there was never time to feel it.

I let all of it out. The scream tears at my throat until it hurts, and tears spill hot down my cheeks.

For one horrible second, nothing happens.

My stomach drops. Please. They’re still fighting. Please, Thorian.

I raise my head.

One of them is running toward me.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t seem to care that turning away from his opponent leaves his back completely exposed.