Page 118 of Of Sword & Silver

They flee.

A barrel behind me bursts open. Wine and bits of wood fly everywhere, and I stand my ground as another explodes, then another. Splinters lodge themselves in my arms and back, but I hardly feel it.

My magic continues to work, the corpses Dario and I worked to shove into the casks reanimating, their eyes glowing black.

They kneel as one, each grasping a dagger formed from their own bones.

An ancient, foul spell, and one only I’m the master of.

“Rise, and do my bidding.” My voice rumbles like thunder. The oak panels creak, the ancient life of the Nivor Forest responding to my magic.

Lara and Morrow run into the room holding hands, Dario on their heels.

“They hurt Kyrie.”

Lara pales.

Morrow stares at the corpses behind me. “I imagined it, but… it’s different to see it happen.”

“You have seen nothing of Death yet, mortal,” I rasp, turning for the narrow entrance to the treasury.

“That’s encouraging,” Dario quips.

Racing to where Kyrie, my Kyrie, is hurting.

“What in the hells?!” Caedia’s indignant voice rises up through the stairwell to the King of Diamonds’ treasury. “You didn’t have to do that. She would have given you the crown.”

“Are you a fool? That is the greatest thief of all time. She would not have given it to me,” a resonant male voice says. “But the dryad is right, you didn’t have to hurt her?—”

Power ripples from my body in a sheet of pure, opaque black, and I hear more barrels exploding.

“By Sola’s toenails, what in the fuck is happening?”

Dario laughs, a mirthless sound.

I storm on, down the stone steps, until the brilliant light of the treasury falters in the face of my darkness.

A lithe, limp figure in a white dress splays across an expensive rug on the floor.

Kyrie.

The guards swivel between the corpses holding their sharpened bones and me, trying to decide what’s the bigger threat.

“Take them,” I rage at the corpses.

“I didn’t mean her any harm,” Alaric says, his eyes wide but a fearless sort of expression on his face. Alaric glances down— too late. Fear drains the color from his face as he takes in Caedia’s handiwork. “Fucking hells, Kyrie.”

Caedia’s vines finally grip his legs, climbing up his thighs, and the tiny dryad sighs in relief, her work done.

“Then who did this?” I thunder. “Who hurt her?”

Alaric’s gaze flinches slightly right.

“Sola will reward me for the traitor’s death,” a guard hisses.

I spare a glance at him over my shoulder. I raise my hand, not even bothering with the sword, and the guard rises off his feet, his eyes rolling.

“Sword,” Lara’s voice whips out, a warning. “Remember. Remember her curse. Not like that.”

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