Page 29 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

They’re coming fast, weapons drawn, muzzles flashing as they fire. My men return fire with practiced precision, the sharp cracks of their guns blending into the night’s relentless chaos.

I reload in a blur, the magazine sliding into place with a satisfying click.

Isabella presses herself against the crate, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. Her wide eyes shift to me, fear and horror flickering in their depths.

I don’t have time to deal with that now.

A round shatters the crate beside me, wood splintering just inches from Isabella’s head.

Enough.

I rise, pivoting smoothly, lining up my next shot.

One squeeze of the trigger—a bullet rips through another attacker’s knee, sending him screaming to the ground.

I stalk forward, closing the distance before he can reach for his fallen weapon. My boot slams down on his wrist, bones snapping under my weight. His scream gurgles in his throat as I aim downward.

I don’t hesitate.

One shot.

His body jerks. Then, nothing.

But the fight isn’t over.

Pain explodes in my side—hot, sharp, and all-consuming.

The gunshot registers a second too late, a brutal crack that echoes through the chaos. I don’t see where it came from, don’t even process the movement before the impact slams into me, knocking the air from my lungs.

I feel the painting slip from my grasp, hitting the ground with a dull slap.

I stagger, my vision tilting, and then—I go down.

The hard concrete meets me with a vicious force, the rough surface tearing at my palms as I brace myself. My breath hitches, pain radiating outward like fire licking through my veins. It’s deep. Too deep. My body protests, every nerve screaming as I try to push up.

I can’t.

My head spins, the world a blur of shadows and distorted light. My fingers twitch, searching for stability, for something—anything—to ground me.

Then, red blooms.

It spreads slowly at first, then faster—a dark stain seeping through the fabric, mixing with the deep blues and grays of Isabella’s strokes. My blood.

The irony isn’t lost on me. A painting meant to reclaim my past, now drenched in the proof of my mortality.

The world tilts again, my vision warping, darkening at the edges, but through the haze, I see her.

Isabella.

She’s there, dropping to her knees beside me, her movements frantic, her breaths uneven. The moment her handspress against my side, a white-hot bolt of pain lances through me, stealing what little breath I have left.

“Stay with me,” she begs, her voice cracking, breaking—desperate.

Her fingers tremble as she applies pressure, but it’s not enough. I feel the warmth of my own blood seeping through my clothes, sticky and unrelenting. It pools beneath me, soaking into the concrete, and for the first time, I truly feel the weight of it.

I try to speak.

To tell her it’s okay.

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