Page 100 of The Shadowbound King

“Help me!” Rane cried.

Blinded, I lurched forward with my arms outstretched. “What happened?”

“Here!” he gasped, stumbling into me. He babbled, his voice hoarse as he cradled Mirella between us. “She’s the Kree. Othor stabbed— H-He had something to do— Oh gods, she’s dying, and I don’t— I can’t?—”

“Give her to me,” I said sharply, taking Mirella. She stirred, opening her eyes and gazing up at me. A knife lodged between her breasts, the blade buried to the hilt. Bright red blood mixed with shimmering gold, the colors mixing and soaking her gown.

Acting on instinct, I raced to the Edeloak and deposited her gently on the soft ground. My hands trembled as I pressed my fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse. It was faint, the flutter like a hummingbird’s wing. Golden blood pumped from around the knife’s hilt, drenching her bodice. It coated my hands, gold soaking the cuffs of my jacket and smearing over the sigils around my wrists.

“I don’t know what to do,” I rasped, the confession shameful on my tongue. “What do I do?”

Her hand, weak but steady, found mine. “Andrin…”

I brushed her hair back from her forehead, tears burning my throat. “I’m here. Rane and I are both here.”

Behind me, the sound of a struggle broke the fragile silence.

“Tell me what you did!” Rane roared. A second later, he slammed Othor against the tree and pressed a knife to Othor’s throat. “Tell me how to fix her, or I’ll cut your fucking head off!”

Hatred burned in Othor’s eyes. “She can’t be fixed. She’s a vessel, nothing more.”

Rane screamed, the sound soaked in frustration and anguish. He pressed the knife deeper, and blood trickled down Othor’s neck.

“What are you talking about?” Rane demanded. “What’s a fucking vessel?”

Magic flowed over my skin, warm currents ruffling my hair and whispering around me. Mirella stared up at me, her golden eyes the same shade as the blood pumping from her chest.

“Andrin…” she whispered.

Leaves drifted around us, tumbling and dipping toward the ground. Mirella’s eyes shimmered, tiny golden rivers flowing through her irises.

Awe spread through me. Only half aware of what I was doing, I looked at the Edeloak. Then I looked at my hand coated with Mirella’s golden blood. With magic whispering in my ear, I pressed my palm to the tree.

Light spread up the trunk. One by one the leaves lit up, faces emerging. My ancestors appeared, their gazes solemn as the record of Autumn’s people spread from branch to branch.

The Edeloak’s glow spread over the King’s Grove. Still pinning Othor, Rane looked up, his face bathed in shimmering golden light.

All at once, the faces disappeared—and a vision of Walto Lornlark took their place. He moved across the oversized leaves, each one displaying the same imagery.

Walto was youthful, my sigils gleaming around his neck and his eyes sheened the same blue as mine. He hurried down apath in the Embervale, pausing to look over his shoulder. After a moment, he continued down the path, eventually arriving in the King’s Grove.

My breath caught, and I realized what was happening.The leaves tell us things if we care to listen.Before the shadows took over the Edelfen, the trees recorded history. Now, the Edeloak told me Othor’s history—and treachery.

The vision continued in the leaves above me, a hundred miniature Othors stepping from the shadows in the King’s Grove with a long, wicked-looking knife in his hand. He and Walto met beneath the Edeloak, their voices low.

“Are you certain?”Walto asked, a nervous aura around him.

Othor gave him a hard look.“We have a deal, Lornlark. Don’t forget it. You uphold your end of the bargain, and I’ll uphold mine. Understand?”

Walto’s mouth twisted.“How many more times do I have to say it?”

Othor faced the Edeloak. Spreading his arms, he chanted in the Old Language, filling the King’s Grove with magic. Dark shadows gathered, building and twisting. The wind whipped faster, tossing the Edeloak’s branches. Screams tore through the air. The Edeloak groaned, shedding leaves as the tempest built.

Othor’s chanting grew louder, rising above the howling wind. The shadows thickened—and then streaked toward Walto.

He flinched, but Othor grabbed his shoulder and held him in place. He chanted louder, his grip unyielding.

Walto’s scream tore through the grove as the sigils around his neck disintegrated, their magic siphoned away. Othor released him. Pale and trembling, Walto staggered, clutching his chest.

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