Page 86 of Heirs of the Cursed

“You think I don’t notice what’s going on between you and the commander?” He took a step toward her. “What do you think will happen when his mission is over and returns to Camdenn? That he will take you with him?”

Naithea tensed her jaw. “That’s none of your business.”

“I’m quite an observant man. I know secrets that would keep you awake at night, including those of the commander. Here, away from the eyes of the capital, he has forgotten his duties, forgotten his darkness . . . Because of you. And that light must be extinguished once and for all.”

Naithea’s magic contracted in her veins like a caged animal, tugging at her for release. Still, she didn’t let the soldier see how weak she felt inside for fighting against herself.

‘Make him repent.’

‘Make him pay.’

“Stop,” she pleaded softly to the monster inside her.

But Fawke Biceus heard her. “I’ll stop when you’re gone.”

“Don’t.” Naithea took a step back.

Not in fear.

In warning.

“Oh, but I want to,” he purred.

Fawke lunged at Naithea with his dagger held high. He swung it skillfully, and she was quick to dodge the first few lunges. Yet at the fifth, the tip of the dagger cut into her arm. A low hiss left her parted lips as she lowered her hand to the wound, where her fingers became stained with her own blood.

Despite the pain, Naithea didn’t let herself be defeated. She struck Fawke’s stomach with her fist to stop him from coming any closer, just like Leonel had taught her.

His eyes darkened with fury, and attacked again and again, with the precision and grace of an ancient warrior. It was as if he’d spent a lifetime training to be ruthless and lethal, beyond the wars he’d trained for.

Winning didn’t seem possible. Her left arm beat with pain, and soon her thigh did as well when the blade cut through the fabric of her pants. The soldier smiled—a smile that reminded her that she was weak, useless, and always would be.

Still, Naithea swallowed the grunt of exertion as she rested her weight on her injured leg and lifted the other into the air, just in time to kick the dagger from Fawke Biceus’ hand. She spun on her axis, and kicked him once again in the stomach to send him crashing to the ground. But with a roar that could shake oceans, he caught her ankle to drag her down with him.

Her head hit the ground, but Naithea was too stunned to even scream. She tried remembering Ward’s instructions, analyzing her opponent’s weaknesses and any other thing that could buy her some more time before her inevitable death.

Fawke was faster, moving atop of her to pin down her arms and legs with his own until she was completely exposed.

“You put up a good fight,” he mocked. “But you will never be able to beat me.”

She stirred. “Screw you.”

As she was about to do the last thing in her power, to scream for help, for Ward, Fawke’s thick hands closed around her throat.

“I’ll enjoy watching as you struggle for air. As you die in my hands and disappear in utter oblivion.”

“He will know,” Naithea growled, trying to convince herself. “He’ll know you killed me.”

“You don’t give me enough credit, darling. I’ve lived a lot longer than you realize,” he said with a devilish grin. “He’ll think it was one of the unstable Bellmarians you’re so eager to protect. And then, we’ll reduce this damned city to ashes once and for all and the danger will vanish for good.”

Fawke’s grip tightened on her throat and squeezed hard, turning Naithea’s breathing into an inaudible gasp. The air was slowly running out of her grasp and the burning in her lungs spread throughout her body.

She tried to scream. Yet all she managed to muster were faint gasps escaping from her throat.

Naithea clawed at his hands, at his face, to get him away from her, but to no avail.

‘Do it.’

And so Naithea cried.

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