Page 44 of The Jasad Heir

He started talking before I could form a coherent response. “Hundreds of people have disappeared in the last seven years, taken by two groups. Forty-seven of them have been found dead. Likely killed by the same people who took them—Jasadi rebels calling themselves Mufsids.”

At some point, he had maneuvered closer. The woods had narrowed onto Arin, wreathing him in shadows, and I could not distinguish how much of it was due to my failing lucidity. Mufsids. I’d never heard the name before.

“You said… two.” My mouth resisted the onerous task of forming a sentence. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, I had slid to the very last inch left of the branch.

“The others are the Urabi. A second Jasadi group, less violent than the Mufsids. The Mufsids and Urabi chase Jasadis throughout the four kingdoms, competing to recruit them for their cause. Whoever the Mufsids can’t successfully recruit, they murder. The Urabi steal their target without any trace, whether they come willingly or not. Both groups have only competed for the same person if they held some important post in Jasad. Nobles, army officials, council members.”

Important post?

A distant alarm sounded behind the wall of my fatigue.

“And you think… they want… me?” It took everything not to close my eyes. If I did, they would not reopen, and I was starting to worry I had made a grave error in judgment. What if everything the Heir said in the cabin was the truth?

“I am certain they do. Once I see my plan to the end, freedom is yours. If you do not believe in my honesty, believe in my loss. If it is revealed I allowed a Jasadi to stand as Nizahl Champion in the Alcalah, it will cast my reputation and my throne into ruin.”

Skepticism etched itself into every line of my face. The best way to ensure no one ever found out his treason was to simply dispose of me after he captured the Mufsids and Urabi.

He plucked the next thorn of uncertainty before I could speak. “You will be constantly surrounded by guards if you win the Alcalah—independent guards from every kingdom who do not obey any command but yours. Not even mine.”

It didn’t matter. We both knew that if he wanted to kill me, he would.

Yet I found myself struggling to believe he would risk plunging his own kingdom into turmoil by murdering his Champion. If he accused another kingdom of killing me, it would be grounds for war. Even Felix, whose intelligence I admired less than a rutting pig’s, had not dared to lay a hand on me after Arin’s declaration.

The world swayed. My fingers strained around the branch. I could no longer keep the darkness at bay.

“I believe you,” I slurred.

My last recollection before my hand slackened and my body dropped was of the Nizahl Heir running, sliding in the mud trail, and the collision of our bodies over the edge of the cliff.

ARIN

He was alive. Bleeding quite profusely, but alive.

Good. His calculations hadn’t failed him.

Arin exhaled, rolling his shoulders with a wince. The river lapped at his legs. The Jasadi lay unmoving against him. He had caught her at a precise angle, using the curve of the riverbank to slide to the rocks instead of tumbling straight down.

The moon spared little light to see her with. Arin turned to the side, laying her inside a shallow puddle. Still no movement. Water lapped against the boulders, lifting her hair into a cloud of black curls circling her face. Combined with the deathly pallor of her skin, the effect pricked a rare bead of disquiet in the Nizahl Heir.

Blood spread in the river from the wounds in her arm and leg. She wasn’t healing.

Nothing could be easy with her. The possibility of her magic not healing her on its own had occurred to him, but he had hoped he was wrong. Arin pulled off his gloves and hesitated. The last time he brushed against her magic, it had consumed him. The utter loss of control was not a memory he would soon forget.

Her chest was barely rising. If she died, he would lose his best chance to lure the Mufsids and Urabi to the Alcalah.

Sharp rocks dug into Arin’s knees as he loomed over the girl. With no small amount of distaste, he grasped the Jasadi’s hands. If she were awake, he had no doubt she’d claw his palms raw. She had the temperament of a deranged goose. Every interaction he’d shared with her had thoroughly convinced him he was not dealing with a stable woman.

The hunger seized him as soon as their hands touched. Howling through Arin, digging into him with a thousand whittling blades. His teeth cut his bottom lip open.

Her magic—it was strong. Too strong. He should have guessed as soon as he touched her in the Relic Room that something about her magic was amiss. Nobody could have hidden power of this caliber from a nosy village of Omalians. Not unless a separate force prevented her magic’s expression. It mystified him, and he loathed being mystified.

The torn edges of her skin reached for each other. Watching her wounds knit shut amazed him no less the second time. Her magic roiled beneath his touch. As soon as the color returned to her skin, Arin dropped her hands, exhaling harshly. Leashed violence shuddered through him, filling his mouth with rust. Her magic’s influence. Arin took no satisfaction in brutality for its own sake, nor did primal impulses typically succeed in overwhelming him. This bloodthirst was a product of her magic. He did not know how, but he intended to find out.

“Sire? Are you here?” Jeru’s call barely rose above the river’s babbling.

The river pulled at the Jasadi, eager to whisk her away. Arin caught her arm and immediately recoiled. She’d torn the sleeves off her tunic? Fleeing into Essam Woods under the siege of winter, arms bared to the elements, was a superbly efficient way to end her time among the living. Arin grabbed a fistful of the fabric at her collar and dragged her to the rocks beside him.

“Are you a donkey’s bastard? If the Jasadis are near and hear you calling for your Commander, they will make finding him first their priority.” Vaun’s incensed voice was much more distinguishable.

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