Page 131 of Heirs of the Cursed

He spun, cut, and spun again.

For Alasdair, physical strength wasn’t the most important advantage one could have when being in combat. And his opponents were proof of that. They were too slow, too arrogant . . .

He sliced through the man’s lower stomach without mercy, forcibly thrusting and raising the dagger through his body, all the way to his throat. As the man crumpled lifeless in front of him, a second charged toward him.

Alasdair wasn’t going to give up. He still had a lot of things to accomplish, and getting out of there alive was the first of them.

The man lunged at him violently, consumed by the rage upon his companion’s death. He fought harder than most people Alasdair had fought against, pushing all his strength to the limit. From rage and hatred, the menessbane necklace around the dog’s neck glowed brightly, completely obliterating the illusion of Darcia around him.

Alasdair turned to search for Darcia. An instant, just a brief moment that shattered the world into a thousand pieces before the edge of the sword cut into his chest.

“No!” Darcia shouted at the top of her lungs.

The cut was perfect, brutal.

Alasdair fell, his hand pressed to the wound to stop the bleeding. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Darcia running toward him, but she wouldn’t reach him in time. Not with Conrad’s dog lifting his sword high, ready to end him.

One thrust.

One thrust and he’d be dead.

“Say goodbye to your miserable life, boy.”

Still, Darcia didn’t seem willing to let that happen. She stretched her arm in front of her, her palm exposed . . . Her magic was reborn fiercer than ever to stop him.

A loud scream reached Alasdair’s ears first. One that was accompanied by agony as their enemy’s body broke down and his skin peeled off his face, where her magic had attacked first. The smell of burned flesh hung in the air, and Alasdair, though weak and out of breath, searched for Darcia in the darkness of the night.

Her eyes were black, and all hint of the boreal hues had disappeared from her irises. Darcia’s lips were moving, pronouncing chants in the forgotten language of adhmati. The language of the Fallen Kingdom.

As she took a step toward them, a vibration ran through Alasdair’s body. Darcia’s magic seemed to course through her veins with the violence of an endless storm.

He watched her take a breath before speaking louder.

To call out to her darkness.

Tobecomeit.

A burst of blood took place and the dryad’s body hit the ground, breaking every bone in his body.

Keeping his hand pressed to his chest, Alasdair tried to stand up and reach her. His legs nearly betrayed him at the sight of Darcia’s hand covered in blood, the crimson stream trickling down her forearm and pooling next to her boots. Blackness flickered wild in the shimmering boreal goodness of her eyes, as she stared at the source of the blood.

A heart.

It wasn’t an illusion she’d casted, but reality. She’d ripped out his heart from his chest with her bare hands.

Alasdair was right—someone had bled that night.

36

Bellmare

For one long week, Naithea waited for them to come for her. She remained seated on the bed, contemplating her new room until she became accustomed to the blackness of the night. Holding astolen sword in one hand and the dagger she hadn’t returned to the prince with the other, she kept her guard up.

The laughter of drunk men shuffling their feet across the cobblestones, happy and free now that the Royal Army had left Bellmare, helped her stay awake for any potential threats. But Naithea knew they weren’t gone. She could feel Fawke’s soul bound to hers still in Pixies’ Forest, awaiting the Commander of Death’s next command. If it weren’t for those deformed men that had found her in the woods, she’d have made good on her promise of killing him.

Naithea stirred and the feather mattress gave way under her weight. She’d grown accustomed to the hardness of the hay of her bed, the one she’d slept on for as long as she could remember with the company of her sisters. Yet she’d been moved to a room with all kinds of luxuries, comfortable and warm . . .

Madame Dimond’s room.

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