Page 115 of Stolen

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The spell around the children shimmers.

Flickers.

Her control is slipping.

She’s unraveling.

I just need a few more seconds.

“Shade,” I say quietly. “You ready?”

Her eyes flash. “Always.”

Dauphiné tilts her head, suspicion creasing her brow. “What are you?—”

“Stalling,” I whisper.

And then—I don’t think.

I just move.

Because he would.

Alaric, with fire in his blood and thunder in his voice. He’d charge headfirst into danger to protect what’s his.

What’s sacred. What’s right.

And those children on the floor? With their small, sleeping bodies and their lives balanced beneath glinting blades?

They’re sacred to me now.

This place—Nightfall—isn’t just a strange realm I was dragged into anymore.

It’s my home.

These are my people.

And I will not let them bleed because someone like Dauphiné can’t handle rejection.

I take a step forward. Then another.

She snarls something. I don’t hear it.

Because all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears, the hum of magic vibrating in my skin, the roaring in my chest that sounds an awful lot like my name in Alaric’s voice.

Myrrin? What is it, my viyella?

The zareth pulses, and I know he can feel me. But he’s too far.

I have to do this.

And I can do this because Alaric believes in me. He gives me strength. And now it’s my turn to prove I deserve it.

My hand goes to my side where that small blade I was gifted from the battlefield rests, still warm from the forge-fire enchantment Alaric placed on it.

My fingers close around the hilt. My knees bend.

Shade is behind me, ready.

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