Page 93 of Between Smoke and Shadow

I point the blade to my pulse.

I will be your friend. He said that the very same night.

The dagger shakes in my hand, and I’m caught off guard by this second memory. It is not from the Architect, I realize, but from myself. I’m suddenly desperate to hear more. I want to stay, if only so I can hear his voice for another moment.

Gods, you’re beautiful. He’d said that the first night he kissed me for real.

Somewhere, I feel the Architect’s hand tighten on my neck. I feel him shake me, as if rattling me into submission. But I still don’t move the dagger. I want more, just one more.

Marry me, Rune.That was only yesterday, and I can still feel the warmth low in my stomach.Nothing makes me feel half as brave and worthy and good as you do.

I blink against the warm haze of the Architect’s magic. Bits of reality come back to me, as if I am waking from a deep slumber. I can feel it then, the presence of not just the Architect’s magic within me, but Harrick’s too.

I will protect you with my life, he said once. And he has, over and over again.

And I will do the same, I whisper into the void.

I cling to Harrick’s magic. It is softer yet so much more vibrant than his father’s, and I let it lead me away from the Architect’s distorted reality. I claw through muddled visions and memories, until I blink and find the rain-streaked courtyard before me. I still hold the Architect’s dagger against my throat, but it no longer feels like an answered prayer.

It feels only like a cold piece of metal, meant not to heal, but to destroy.

Harrick fights his captor, screaming my name again and again. Straining to get to me, to keep his promise. This time, the voice I hear is not his or the Architect’s or even my own. It is Alven Tjor’s, the dark-haired servant who didn’t want to risk his neck but did anyway.

That’s our strength, you know,he’d told me in the Wilds.They always underestimate us.

I look at the Architect without turning my head. Even as he pinches my neck, urging me to kill myself faster, he doesn’t look at me. I am so little a threat, he’s not paying me any attention. His eyes are solely on his most powerful descendant. Because this moment is not about me dying, not really. It is about Harrickwatchingme die and being unable to stop it.

I tighten the blade in my hand and take a thick breath through my nose.

And then, I lunge.

The Architect turns, his eyes widening in surprise. He’s too late. My blade slices through his exposed skin, hitting somewhere between his throat and his pulse. I jerk my hand back, drawing out the blade with it. I stab him again. And once more.

He falls like many of his victims. First to his knees, with his fingers grasping at his throat. Then forward, onto his hands. Blood sprays in thick pulses, soaking his leather gloves. I stand over him with the dagger still clutched in my hand.

His blood is everywhere. On my clothes, my hands, my face. I can taste the sharp iron of it on my tongue.

His guard crashes against my side. At first, I think it’s to kill me, but he only shoves me out of the way. He’s knelt before his leader, pressing both hands against the man’s throat.

“Get a healer!” he screams at the second guard.

The man doesn’t wait to be told again. He abandons Harrick’s side and sprints for the Tower’s entrance. I stare after him in disbelief before looking back to the Architect. He’s ruled this land since its creation, and he’s terrorized my kind every day of it. It’s fitting, I think, that he should die by a mortal hand. Despite this guard’s effort, I can tell by the empty glaze over his eyes.

The Architect is already dead.

“Rune,” Harrick says. His voice is a desperate plea. “We need to go.”

I stumble off the stage, half-collapsing at Harrick’s side. I gently hold his bruised face between my hands, and even though there’s no time for it, I place a frantic kiss to the top of his forehead.

“We need to go,” he says again. His eyes dart between me and the stage. “Help me up.”

It’s a struggle but I manage to get him on his feet. He’s covered in blood and bruises and swollen flesh, and I’m terrified he might lose consciousness at any moment. The guard on the stage has his back mostly to us as he tries, uselessly, to stop the Architect’s bleeding.

“If I collapse, leave me,” Harrick says as we cross the courtyard “If I collapse, go until you find?—”

“We’re going together,” I interrupt. “So stay with me. Okay? Stay with me, and we’ll go together.”

We don’t speak again as I drag him into the Tower. The entryway is thankfully vacant, but we’re quick to escape it, just in case that changes. We head down a series of hallways until we reach a concealed military lift. Only once we’re inside, moving upward, does he kiss the top of my head. Again and again, until he lets out a shaky sob.

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