Page 150 of Heirs of the Cursed

When she tried to kick him in the abdomen, he dodge just in time before dragging her away from the commotion.

He was going to take her away.

Darcia tried to scream, to make Alasdair look at her one last time before she disappeared into oblivion. The soldier kept moving, his grip firm on her, even as her boots sank into the cold ground, trying to slow him down. She may be weak, defenseless, and yet Darcia descended her hand to her lower back; there, where the cold metal of the dagger caressed her skin.

She was tired of everyone deciding for her. Tired of letting the world hurt her over and over again . . .

And so Darcia would fight until she drew her last breath. Her fingers closed firmly around the hilt of the dagger as Alasdair’s words echoed through her mind like a reminder of her own strength.

If you really want to be free, you will have to be the one to dictate the course of your own story.

She owned her own decisions.

She was the mistress of her destiny.

Quick as the wind, Darcia pulled the dagger out of her back and plunged it into the soldier’s shoulder. The skin and flesh were hard to tear, but that didn’t stop her from pushing her other hand against the short weapon to cut deeper.

The hold around her loosened as he uttered a growl of repressed pain. Darcia dropped to the ground and her bones trembled inside her when his eyes, black as the abysm, turned to her; something between amusement and annoyance glowed in them.

He yanked the dagger out of his shoulder and dropped it to the soil, disappearing between the grass. The soldier’s face remained impassive as the blood gurgled from the wound and stained his clothes. He took a step forward, then another, and Darcia, still on the ground, crawled backward to keep her distance.

“That was very unfortunate,” he said. One step, two, three. Darcia struggled to get up again. “You, my sweet Meissa Boreaalinen, are coming with me.”

Willing to give her last ounce of strength to avoid such fate, Darcia leaned forward. She had to get up, to fight . . . Life had taken so much away from her already, but she wasn’t going to allow them to take her resilience as well.

Yet she wasn’t alone.

A sword cut through the darkness, its blood-covered edge caressing that sensitive spot under the soldier’s chin to make him look up and meet another set of boreal eyes that promised a certain death.

“Don’t touch her.”

42

Saevus Forest

“I thought I had ended you.”

Naithea’s eyes shone like two boreal flames capable of destroying evil spells, of illuminating worlds. The blood of herenemies trickled down her face, of those who had been unable to escape from the edge of her sword. Thick and hot, it covered her like a goddess of revenge and death.

Her dark braid was undone and wavy hair clung to her wet face, but neither deprived her of seeing the man who knelt in front of her. He was about to take away the only person who might have answers about her past, about what was to come.

She should have killed him. Naithea should have broken his neck until the sound of his bones snapping reached her ears. Only then would she be certain that Fawke Biceus had perished once and for all. But to see him standing,breathing, was a horrible possibility she didn’t wish to be true.

“You can’t kill what’s already dead, darling,” Fawke replied with a devilish grin.

That answer chilled Naithea’s blood.

The tigers roared in unison. Their furs, soaked with the blood of both wounded and dead soldiers, glowed under the moonlight as they approached the clearing. Fawke’s gaze fell upon them. He didn’t tremble, nor did he plead for his life. Instead, there was defiance in his eyes, as if he was certain he could wipe out any beast.

Naithea averted her gaze to her sister for a short moment, who held herself and clung to the pendant around her neck. She knew that expression all too well, for it was the same one she made when her heart was pounding with fear but her mind struggled not to look weak.

She walked around Fawke with the sword still kissing his throat. Both tigers seemed attentive to the princesses’ movements, digging its claws into the soil. Naithea plunged her hand into his brown hair and tugged at it until she had control over his head.

“Take a good look at your comrades, Fawke.” Naithea forced him to glance at the fallen soldiers. “Death is inevitable. Nothing will save you from it.”

Fawke chuckled. “It will be that very death that will chase you for the rest of time. It will haunt you until the blood of the people you love stains your hands.”

The wild tiger growled in warning.

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