Page 69 of A World of Ruins

The night in Terranos. When we captured the Galgr.

When the deities of Solaris and Crello created this world, they couldn’t stay in it for ever. The skies needed them for the world to survive and knew they had to eventually sacrifice something.

What did they sacrifice?

Their lives.

The reminder tunnels out of me like a rush, and I gasp, almost tripping on my feet.

I drop my dagger and glance back at Darius. He’s frowning at me like he knows I have thought of something but can’t help the twitch of his hands, readying to attack.

My chin tips up as I look at Aurum one last time and throw him a smile.

He doesn’t like that one bit. All amusement fades from his one eye as he leans forward, anger twisting his lips into a frown. He flicks his fingertips, and at that, Darius winces, edging towards me with the makeshift blade at his side.

I take a step back at each swing, my composure calm, yet my heart bucks wildly.

‘Nara, what are you doing!’ Illias yells, fear and worry potent in his voice as he pulls at his leg to try to free himself.

‘Goldie,’ Darius whispers painfully as he strikes again, and I take another step, knowing we are nearing the edge of the arena again.

I don’t say a word. Instead, I map out his features, the hard contours of his face, the stubble along his jaw, the pout of his full lips. His eyes.

In that final sweep of my gaze, my back collides with the wall, and in tandem with Darius’s blade thrusting into my abdomen, I swiftly draw the other dagger from my waistband, digging it deep into his heart.

We go still. It doesn’t register at first. The impact is so quick, so shocking, that I don’t feel anything. The crowd around us fall into stunned silence. A chilling numbness creeps along the sides of my stomach as my breath mirrors Darius’s, both laboured.

Darius lowers his gaze to the dagger embedded in his heart, the blade sinking all the way to the hilt. Exhaustion seeps deeper into my consciousness, and my breath remains heavy as Darius slowly lifts his head, locking eyes with me. Tears trace down his face, yet amidst it all, an unexpected sense of liberation emanates from him.

‘It’s okay,’ I whisper, choking back on a mouthful of blood. I delicately touch his chest; his eyelids are getting heavier. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’ I’m not lying. I feel nothing.

As he yanks out the dagger from his chest, he lets out a sob that breaks me to pieces, unable to hold myself together. I watch as he collapses to the ground, knees first, then the side of his body.

Time slows as consciousness slips away, and my brother’s frantic cries become distant echoes. I fall beside Darius, lying on my back with my head turning towards him. I observe his still form. He’s no longer breathing, no longer here with me. ‘Until next time, thief,’ I whisper, giving him a watery smile.

And then . . . I draw one last gasp of air before it vanishes, leaving nothing but silence.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

A gentle breeze sweeps through me, bringing on the scent of caramelised sugars – a nostalgic smell that takes me back to my childhood.

Strawberry pies that Idris would buy for me at the market whenever I behaved.

I have my eyes closed, the sun tickling my face as I run my hands through the long grass beside me. I turn on my side, carefully sitting up. I blink wide awake as if I have taken the longest nap in time and stretch my arms out, smiling wistfully as I spot my cottage up the hill.

Flowers bloom all around me, buttercups and white clover. I stand up, going onto my bare tiptoes, feel the soft white silk of my dress.

Inhaling the fresh air, I grin up at the sky and head back home, twirling along the way with the skirt of my dress billowing out below me like smoke.

As soon as I enter my cottage, I’m warmed by the cosy embrace of the crackling fireplace. Smoky notes mingle with the subtle hint of Illias’s paint pots and brushes – a scent that was strong enough to stick in anyone’s nostrils, but I always found them to be comforting.

A fumbling noise in the kitchen triggers my curiosity. I wonder if it is Idris already trying to cut a slice of pie for me, or if Iker is rummaging through the cupboards, scrounging for food that Idris has not touched or tried to cook himself.

My feet pad along the wooden floorboards, the antiquity of our home giving way under my weight as it creaks. I stand by the doorway of our small kitchen and frown, watching as long golden blond hair flows behind a tall and broad back. Calloused hands knead the pastry on the counter, and freshly washed strawberries gleam brightly from the sun at the other end near the unfixed cracked window.

As if he senses I am standing here, staring, the man turns.

My chest heaves with the shocked gasps of what I’m seeing. A gentle smile that I only remember now in memories and dreams appears in the flesh. Brown docile eyes meet mine – the same colour as Iker and Illias’s.

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