Page 85 of A Game of Veils

I stop and pant, splinters jabbing through my lungs.

I can make it to the top. Bit by bit. One heave at a time.

I brace my elbow and squirm, brace and squirm. The ache in my side sears hotter, and my head throbs harder.

The forest floor has just come into view when my broken foot smacks against a stone, and the roar of pain drowns out my thoughts completely.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Aurelia

Idon’t realize I fell unconscious until my eyes flutter open again.

In that first instant of waking, my mind hasn’t quite caught up to everything I’ve been through in the past several hours. I recognize that I’m lying on dry earth with morning sunlight wavering through leaves overhead, and move to push myself upright.

The spike of agony that pierces through me from head to toe shocks me right back to the present.

I crumple back down against the side of the hollow and make an attempt at clearing my throat. My vocal cords still sear with pain.

When I part my lips and attempt to call out, I sound more like I’m gargling than yelling.

I can see over the lip of the hole, but even lifting my good arm toward the surface makes me flinch. All my injuries have set in, and my initial rush of adrenaline has faded.

It’s hard to imagine being able to pull myself the rest of the way out of the hollow, let alone all the way to the palace gardens.

What now?

I’m scrambling for some kind of solution when the crunch of footsteps reaches my ears.

My heart leaps. The sound was distant, but it can’t have come from too far off if I was able to hear it.

Another twig snaps. The underbrush rustles with someone’s passage.

And a voice that’s low but pitched to carry wavers through the woods. “Aurelia? Are you out here?”

That sounds strangely like… Prince Raul.

Why would he be wandering the woods? Why would he be looking for me?

Both questions are better answered after I’m found.

I try to lift my voice again. “I’m over here!”

The rasping words are barely louder than a whisper. I don’t hear any sign that my call was noticed.

There has to be another way. I grope around with my uninjured arm and grasp one of the larger sticks Fausta and her friends hurled down on me.

Extending the stick as far as I can without fainting with agony, I rap it against the base of the fallen tree. The stick clatters against the log.

Not quite loud enough. Gritting my teeth, I smack the mossy wood with all the strength I have left.

The distant footsteps stop. “Did you hear that?”

Another voice—Prince Bastien’s even cadence. “That way.”

I keep flailing at the log even as tears form at the corners of my eyes. The bruised and possibly fractured ribs in my side send a pulsing burn through my torso.

The approaching figures pick up speed, crackling through the brush. I’m just lowering my arm with a gasp for breath when they hurtle into the small clearing around the fallen tree.

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