Page 85 of On Brutal Thrones

My chest tightens. The golden sword! After everything we risked to get those weapons, abandoning one feels horribly wrong, but there’s no time. Thorian and Fenric are beside the boulder, waving us forward frantically.

“Talon!” I shout.

He’s running straight toward the wall of blue fire.

I squirm in his arms, panic surging through me, but his hold only tightens.

“Trust me.” His mouth brushes my ear as he says it.

I tighten my arms around him as we race toward the flames. Adrenaline makes my hands tremble, while Talon’s body jolts beneath me with every stride. The closer we get, the more unbearable the heat becomes, pressing against my skin like a solid wall.

Every instinct screams at me that we’re about to run straight into the fire.

I squeeze my eyes shut, then force them open again just in time to see Thorian shove the boulder into the blue flames. The fire flickers, then vanishes where the rock interrupts the circle, creating a narrow opening several feet wide.

Talon charges through.

Cool darkness swallows us.

Fresh air hits my lungs, and I fold forward the instant Talon puts me down, coughing so hard my chest spasms. Each breath scrapes at my throat. Tears stream from my eyes, and I suddenly realize how little air I was getting inside that ring.

Breathing is all I can manage.

My entire body hurts. My muscles tremble from exhaustion, fear, and whatever remains of yesterday’s magic depletion. Fenric rubs a warm hand over my back while Talon gathers my hair away from my sweaty neck.

Thorian doesn’t join us. He stands near the wall of blue flames, staring into camp with a deep scowl. “Look.”

I straighten, wiping tears from my cheeks.

Inside the ring, the Vultures are scattering through the remains of our camp. Each stops in a different place and kneels.

“What are they doing?” I croak.

Why aren’t they following us? They nearly had us. We’re exhausted, unprepared, and barely able to breathe. If they came through that fire now, they might actually win.

Instead, they’re searching the ground. Then I see things glinting in their hands.

“Check your sheath,” Fenric says.

I reach automatically for my dagger. My fingers close around nothing, and my stomach drops.

I look at the others. Their sheaths are empty too. Talon wasn’t the only one who lost his weapon.

“That pink light,” Thorian says quietly, his eyes fixed on the Vultures. “A disarming spell. When it’s cast well, most people don’t even realize their weapons are gone.” His expression hardens. “It takes a shit ton of energy.”

“Energy they shouldn’t have,” Fenric mutters. “Not after what they did in the flower field.”

More anger burns through me. Of course they shouldn’t have it.

“Valtor’s helping them,” I say. “He’s been making the Vultures more powerful, giving them advantages the rest of us don’t have. And now they’ve taken the golden weapons too.”

“Fucking gods,” Talon mutters.

Beyond the flames, the Vultures gather our weapons and retreat through the opposite side of camp. Magnus lingers at the edge of the firelight, his ruined face twisted with hatred.

“Tell your sister I’m looking forward to meeting her,” he says. “I wonder if she’ll scream as sweetly as you do.”

My stomach turns, but before I can answer, he disappears into the darkness.