Page 132 of On Brutal Thrones

His head lifts slowly, and his face scares me more than I expect. His eyes are unfocused, all the humor and sharpness gone from them, and his expression is empty in a way I’ve never seen before.

His lips move. Nyx?

“Step to your left!” I shout. “Onto the bush. Right beside you. Everyone find bushes to stand on!”

He stares at me.

“Now!”

For once, I manage to sound enough like Thorian that it works.

Talon shuffles sideways. His boot catches the edge of the plant, then the other follows. I hold my breath, waiting for his face to clear the way my mind did.

Instead, his knees buckle.

“Talon!”

He drops heavily onto the bush, elbows braced on his knees and his face disappearing into his hands.

No. This cannot be it. Not after the Trial of Souls. Not after the cave and the blood field and the flowers and every creature and every god who tried to kill us.

We are close enough to almost touch the fucking Spire.

I look farther uphill and spot Fenric sitting on another patch of scrub, his head bowed and chest heaving. Thorian has too, but of course he doesn’t sit. He stands on the little patch of green with his legs braced apart and his jaw clenched so tightly I can see the muscles working even from here. His chest rises and falls with deep, labored breaths.

He looks exhausted. Not Thorian exhausted, which means silent and slightly slower. He looks like he has nothing left.

I stare at the red earth separating us, then at the scattered patches of living green. The ground is draining us. The plants are protecting us. And we’re stranded on four tiny islands of life partway up the mountain.

Then everything gets worse.

I feel the prickle of magic across my skin a heartbeat before the first blast comes from somewhere above us.

“Down!” Thorian shouts.

The spell streaks past him and Fenric in a violent flare of purple, striking the slope between us with enough force to make the ground jump beneath my feet. Dry grass ignites instantly. Heat rolls over me, carrying the bitter stink of scorched earth and sulfur.

I look up and find the Vultures perched on a rocky outcropping farther up the mountain, silhouetted against the storm-dark sky like the greedy birds they named themselves after. Magnus stands between Antone and Halwin, all three with their hands raised as magic gathers around their fingers. Lightning flashes behind them, illuminating Magnus’s ruined face for one sickening instant.

Of fucking course.

We’re finally climbing toward the Spire, close enough that I can feel its energy vibrating through the mountain, and they’re not about to let us simply reach it.

Another gust whips smoke across the slope. I cover my mouth and turn toward Talon, expecting the growing fire to do what my shouting couldn’t. He hates fire. Surely that will be enough to snap him out of whatever the red earth is doing to him.

But Talon doesn’t move.

He sits hunched on the shrub, staring toward the flames as they crackle through the dry grass. Orange light flickers in his pale eyes, but there’s no fear in them. Barely any recognition at all.

My stomach drops.

“No, no, no.”

I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second, trying to think past the panic. The red ground glowed brighter whenever we moved. Every step made it pulse, and the harder we pushed ourselves, the more exhausted we became. What’s strange though is that some of us seem more affected by it than others. Talon especially. But why?

Maybe it isn’t simply draining whoever touches it. Maybe the more energy we use, the more it takes.

I look down at the plant beneath my boots, then at the open ground around me. It’s a terrible idea, but it’s the only one I have.