Page 94 of Between Smoke and Shadow

“I love you,” he says, breathing the words against my hair. “So much, Rune.”

“I love you too,” I say. I’m trembling again, not from Harrick’s weight but from the reality of all that’s happened. “What are we going to do now?”

“I need to get my magic back,” he says. His voice is strained, tight. “We’ll rest tonight, and in the morning, I’ll be ready. We’ll call a gathering—and then, we’ll take what’s ours.”

“Harrick, you need a healer,” I say. A quick glance at the side of his face confirms my worst fears: he’s fading, and fast. I tighten my hold on him. “Forget the kingdom. You’re going to die if you don’t get help. Once we get to your quarters, I’ll go find someone?—”

“No,” he says, but even his words are growing weaker. “It’s too dangerous, Rune. Tomorrow. I’ll see one tomorrow, I promise. Just, please…”

I don’t answer him. The lift reaches his floor, and I lead him to his quarters. Once we’re in his room, he stumbles into bed.He’s still soaked and covered in blood, but he’s rapidly losing his fight to stay awake. I tuck him beneath the covers, not strong enough to change his clothes by myself. Once he’s settled, I hurry to the wardrobe for more blankets.

I’ve no more than turned when a flare of red magic erupts through the room. I startle, spinning to face Harrick again. He’s sitting upright in bed, arm shaking but lifted. Thin, reedy vines twine around the door, as if to lock us in—and everyone else out.

Harrick manages two strands before his eyes roll back. He collapses against the mattress, finally succumbing to unconsciousness.

THIRTY-TWO

RUNE

After checking on Harrick, who is unconscious but still breathing, I stand in front of his door. The vines are too small to keep me from leaving, but that also means they’re too small to keep others from coming. I lean against the door, listening to bursts of chaos. People are screaming, sobbing, running. I suck in a breath, forcing myself to breathe. Too much has happened in too little time, and I need to stop and think. I look around the room, evaluating, calculating.

Harrick is unconscious and dying.

The Tower is in complete turmoil.

All of our allies are dead.

I wait for a plan to formulate, but when nothing does, I return the wardrobe. I rummage for extra blankets, pausing when I spot a stack of dry coveralls, tucked beneath his clothes. I wonder how long he’s had these here, ready for whenever he needed to send me a new pair.

I grab the top set, pressing my face against the rough fabric to muffle my sobs. I’m crying before I can stop it, leaned against the side of the wardrobe, legs shaking as today rushes through me. I risked Harrick’s life. I watched old friends die. But most of all…

I killed the Architect.

With the coverall clenched in my fist, I run to the bathroom. I fall to my knees before the toilet, puking until there’s nothing left. My chest burns with each breath, and I squeeze my eyes shut, sure this is all a dream. I’ll wake at any moment, back in my servant quarters. No husband, no freedom, and none of this blood covering my clothes.

Murderer.

I retch again, even though there’s nothing left. I’m shaking and crying, and feeling a strange whisper, telling me I’d do it all over again.

It is with that thought that I force myself back to my feet. I dress in dry coveralls and return to Harrick’s bedside. His breaths are heavy and labored, as if each one hurts his ribs. I gently brush my fingers through his hair, combing them from his bloodied face.

“I’ll be back soon,” I whisper against his temple.

I swallow hard, refusing to let myself cry again. I’ve already wasted too much time. I leave him with a final kiss on his forehead.

It takes more effort than I expect to open the bedroom door. Three hard shoves, and Harrick’s thin vines finally snap. I stumble into the hallway. It’s loud, but the sounds are distant, echoing from other corridors, other floors. I move quickly, my head down, as I head for the medical wing.

By the time I reach it, it’s nearly impossible to move through the crowd of waiting people. There are several elites and royals packed into the corridor, all clamoring to get into the infirmary. They’re families of the guards, I realize. Mothers and fathers and siblings, desperate to know their relative survived.

Many will not get the answer they want.

People look down at me as I squeeze through any open spaces I find. There’s no point in asking them to move—I’m dressed in servant’s garb, and the less attention I draw, thebetter. With my elbows tucked to my side, I press forward, until I’m faced with a guard. He stands, centered in front of the open doorway to the infirmary. The black walls swallow the commotion behind them, but it does nothing to quiet the moans of agony. The man crosses his arms, giving me an unimpressed expression.

Behind me, someone yanks on my shoulder. I’m ripped back a step, but I fight them off, ignoring their shocked outcry. I focus only on the bare-faced guard before me. Without a mask, I don’t know his rank.

“I need a healer,” I say. My words are too quiet, my voice stolen by the crowd. I try again, louder. “I need a healer. Immediately.”

“Get out of here!” a man yells behind me. He grabs the back of my head, fisting my hair between his fingers. My scalp is still tender from where the Architect grabbed me, and I cry out. The man snarls against my ear. “They don’t serve fucking vermin here!”

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