Page 93 of On Brutal Thrones

I scan the shoreline first, then the trees, then the lake itself, searching for ripples, movement, eyes beneath the surface. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my sword.

Nothing.

That makes me trust it even less.

The lake is unnaturally still, its surface smooth as polished glass. Farther out, wisps of steam curl lazily into the air, carrying a faint mineral scent. Sunlight spills across the water, breaking into brilliant shards that force me to squint.

It’s beautiful.

Too beautiful.

I take another careful step along the shore, watching for movement.

“Come on,” I mutter. “What are you?”

The lake gives me no answer.

Instead, I see myself.

My reflection is so clear that I could be standing in front of a mirror. Dark hair dusted with dirt. Thick eyebrows. Leather shirt streaked with grime. A frown that looks permanently carved into my face.

I scowl at it. The reflection scowls back.

Then it gets closer.

I freeze. I haven’t moved… my reflection had.

Every instinct I have screams at once. My sword slides free with a whisper of steel as I step back from the shore.

The water ripples.

My reflection rises with it.

First a head. Then shoulders. A broad chest beneath a leather shirt identical to mine. Water streams from dark hair and rolls down a familiar face. Leather boots emerge last as the figure steps onto the shore.

His hand rests on the hilt of a sword.

My sword.

He looks at me with my own eyes. For several seconds, neither of us moves. Then his fingers curl around the hilt, and a cold realization settles into my gut. Of course.

After everything the gods have thrown at me, they’ve finally found an opponent I can’t claim to know nothing about.

Myself.

13

Nyx

Tears push at the bottom of my throat and burn behind my eyes, a wall of panic and fear I’m barely managing to hold back. The mist has grown so thick I can barely see my own hands stretched out in front of me. It clings to my skin, cold and damp, and swallows every sound beyond the pounding of my heart. I reach into the whiteness, desperate to find Thorian, Fenric, or Talon, but my fingers close around empty air.

“Thorian?”

Nothing.

My heart pounds harder.

“Fenric? Talon!”