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“Do not trust your eyes. Do not trust anything.”
Those were Commander Maddox’s first words after returning from the cursed lands.
Letter from Randall Thorne of the Guard to
Lieutenant Harlow, year 49 of the curse
Isiah couldn’t hold on much longer if we didn’t tend to his wounds. Crimson dripped with every step into the forest of eternal night, the Knight losing precious minutes.
He couldn’t die. Not like this.
All I could think about were the hundreds of times he’d tended to my wounds over the years, every time I’d come sneaking back into the sanctum after a particularly awful mission. Now it was my turn to make sure he was all right and—
“We need to stop, now,” Kiara urged, gently shrugging Isiah’s weight from her shoulder. We lowered him beneath an ivory trunk, both of us grimacing as feral sounds climbed from Isiah’s throat. They made my heart falter and my eyes burn.
“Hold on, brother.” I wiped away the sweat coating my fellow Knight’s brow. Myfriend’sbrow. “Let me see what we’re working with here.” Ripping his shirt in two, I located the grisly puncture, a cascade of red pumping from the hole in Isiah’s chest. “We’ve both been through worse, old man.”
We’d been shredded and practically torn to bits during riots Cirian had sent us to squash. Hells, we both had been stabbed before, shot full of arrows. One look at our bodies would paint a gruesome picture.This is nothing, I told myself.Just an arrow. Just a stab wound.
I felt Kiara’s heavy gaze upon me, and when I lifted my head, pity and uncertainty greeted me. She didn’t think Isiah would make it. I abruptly stood, shrugging off my weapons and soiled leather jacket.
“What are you doing?” she asked when I started to take off my long-sleeved shirt.
“We need to apply pressure.” Whipping off the thick linen shirt, left in nothing but a thin cotton undershirt, I dropped to my knees, wadding the material as I pushed it against the gushing wound.
Kiara’s eyes flickered to mine again, wild and full of helplessness. Already, Isiah’s blood drenched my shirt.
“Once we stop the bleeding, we need to cauterize the wound.” I continued to talk, but Kiara didn’t move, let alone speak.
“Jude.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. I ignored her, my hands desperately thrusting into my oldest friend’s chest.
“We just need to stop it…” Too much blood. The bastards had struck something vital.
“Jude,” she tried again, giving me a firm squeeze.
I kept working, my breathing hard and uneven.
Isiah bringing me coffee in the morning after missions.
Ruffling my hair and darting out of the way before I could smack him.
Him telling me to “stop brooding and smile for once.”
Memories flashed across my mind and my chest squeezed. I felt like I was drowning, weights tied to my ankles, the surface too far away.
Kiara kept repeating my name, kept shaking me, but I just pushed on Isiah’s unmoving chest, hissing his name in anger.
He couldn’t leave me. Not like my father. Not like my mother.
He was the only family I had left.
A cold breeze gusted, seeming to wrap itself up around me and hold tight. It soothed the sweat on my brow, and instead of the red rage covering my vision, pacifying shadows washed away the color of loss.
I looked up.
“Jude, he’s gone,” Kiara whispered, and that mollifying breeze caressed my bare skin. “I’m so, so sorry.” Her fingers enfolded around my wrist, her gloves stained with Isiah’s blood.
“He’s been through worse than this!” I growled, my teeth bared. “He’s going to be fine!”
