Page 146 of Heirs of the Cursed

Each blow was a reflection of the other. As Killian attacked harder, Naithea was elusive. The combat was the result of a duality that could last for hours if neither of them surrendered. Both knew the other’s movements and how to intercept them before they reached their target.

Naithea twirled on her boots, stepping away from his attack as she raised her sword to slice through the leather suit, just as he brought his weapon down toward her head. A low growl escaped Killian’s lips, prompting her to lift her gaze and see a thin line of blood trickling down his side.

“Come on, kill me if you have the guts!” Killian spat as his free hand closed over the wound.

‘Do it.’

‘Kill him.’

Naithea hesitated.

If she didn’t kill him, she’d never be free. It was her arrogance that held her back—or perhaps the lingering feelings she still had for the prince standing in front of her.

“I’m not going to waste my magic on you.”

“Coward,” he spat.

Naithea’s heart clenched in her chest. “You are, by hiding behind a fabricated name. I’ve always known that the Crown Prince was useless.”

Killian attacked.

Whether they knew it or not, the heirs of two warring kingdoms were fighting with their hearts. Fighting for freedom, to protect and persevere. To erase once and for all the hope they thought they could have together and replace it with ancestral hatred.

Killian lunged at her and the sharp blade of his sword struck her hand. A scream left her lips—the precise distraction he needed to disarm her completely. It took just one more strike for the sword to fly from her grasp, disappearing into the shadows of the room.

With a snarl, the prince twirled his sword between his fingers and delivered a slash that tore the fabric of her clothes and the skin of her collarbones.

Blood stained her fingers as she tried to stop the bleeding. A part of Naithea had hoped that Killian would spare her life, that he’d choose her. The blood on her hands only confirmed that he had made his choice and she was not part of it.

Killian kicked her stomach, knocking her to the ground. She coughed as the air left her lungs and reached for her dagger, but the prince kicked her hand, extinguishing all hope of fighting back. He hovered over her, the tip of his sword resting on that spot in her chest . . . Where her broken heart beat.

Their gazes met, finding nothing in his blue eyes but loathing.

“I always knew you didn’t love me. Not like you loved Maliya,” were Naithea’s last words. “I was doomed from the beginning.”

Something burned in Killian’s eyes.

Tears.

“Do it!” she yelled once again.

His scarred hands closed tighter around the hilt of his sword, urging him to strike the final blow. The tip of the sword cut into her flesh; blood spurted around it. But Killian Allencort was unable to continue, as a blow to the head destabilized him.

The second knocked him to the ground.

And then, he fell unconscious.

Naithea crawled along the ground, recoiling, as she tried to make out the man who had saved her. A tuft of dark brown hair covered his forehead and two emerald eyes gazed at her in silence through a mask of blackness.

He dropped the metal bucket, clinking against the ceramics. “That was . . . Interesting. I didn’t think it would work,” he said in relieved amazement.

Naithea frowned. “Who—?”

“Run,” he commanded. “Now.”

He didn’t need to say more. Naithea retrieved her sword and rushed for the doors, still holding pressure against her open flesh. Behind her, the man snatched the sword from the unconscious prince. They would need all the weapons they could find to fight what was to come.

They ran through the cobblestone streets of the city, not knowing where they were headed. Their only guide was the borealis gemstone pendant that throbbed between her breasts and burned her skin through the broken threads of her shirt. She could hear the sound of drums in her ears, as if two hearts beat with the rage of a thousand tigers until the rhythm became one.

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