Page 104 of Realms of Swords and Storms
He glanced at it as if just remembering it was injured. "Caught under falling debris during the third explosion. It doesn't matter." His gaze returned to the woman, who watched us with pain-glazed eyes. "She needs medical attention. And there may be others trapped."
"What about the explosives?" I asked, the question harsh even to my own ears. "Isn't that why you stayed? To disable them?"
Tarshi met my gaze directly, no evasion in his expression despite the guilt that shadowed it. "I've disabled four more since the initial explosions," he said quietly. "But I don't know if there are others. Most of the buildings around the square have been destroyed, but there are still a few standing. If even one more device detonates..."
He didn't need to finish the thought. I looked around at the devastation surrounding us—the crumbled buildings, the bodies strewn across the square, the few survivors still staggering through the rubble. Another explosion would claim whatever lives had been spared thus far.
"Livia," he said suddenly, urgency replacing exhaustion in his voice. "Is she safe? Did you find her?"
"She's safe," I assured him, the relief in his expression mirroring what I had felt when I'd found her alive. "With that nobleman of hers, a few streets away from the square. But Octavia..." I shook my head, unable to soften the blow. "She didn't make it. Caught in one of the later explosions."
Grief flashed across his face, raw and unguarded. "And Marcus? Antonius?"
"I haven't seen them," I admitted. "But they're survivors, both of them. If anyone could make it through this hell, it's those two."
Tarshi nodded, though doubt lingered in his eyes. He turned back to the injured woman, who watched our exchange with amixture of fear and confusion. "We need to get her out of here," he said. "Then I need to check the remaining buildings."
"I'll take her," I said, already moving to the woman's side. "You can come with us. I'll bring you to Livia."
He shook his head, his expression hardening into resolve. "I can't. Not yet. Not until I'm sure there are no more devices."
"You'll get yourself killed," I argued, anger flaring through me. "Haven't you done enough?"
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. Tarshi flinched as if I'd struck him, but his determination didn't waver.
"There are still people in and around the square," he said quietly. "Injured, trapped, but alive. Another explosion would be devastating. I can't leave until I'm sure."
I wanted to argue further, to grab him and drag him away from this nightmare he had helped create. But I recognized the look in his eyes—the same determination that had kept him alive in the arena, that had driven him to save Livia, to free other Talfen, to fight for a better world despite all evidence that such a thing might be impossible.
"Fine," I growled, helping the woman to her feet as gently as I could. "But when you're done, you find us. You understand? No heroic last stands. No martyrdom. You finish this, and you come back."
He nodded, though something in his eyes made me doubt his sincerity. Before I could press him further, he turned away, moving purposefully toward one of the few buildings still standing at the edge of the square.
I watched him go, an unexpected tightness in my chest that had nothing to do with smoke inhalation or exertion. Then I turned my attention to the woman, who leaned heavily against me, her injured leg barely taking any weight.
"Come on," I told her, supporting her as best I could. "Let's get you somewhere safe."
The journey away from the square was slow, agonizing. The woman's pain made every step a trial, and my own thoughts were a confused tangle of anger, fear, and something else I wasn't ready to name. But we pressed on, moving through streets now largely deserted except for the occasional fleeing citizen or shell-shocked survivor.
A few streets away from the square, we encountered a group of city guards who had set up a makeshift medical station in the shelter of a stable. I handed the woman over to their care, giving a brief explanation of her injuries that omitted any mention of Tarshi or how we had freed her.
I should have stayed there. Should have made my way back to Livia as I had promised. There was nothing more I could do in the square, and Tarshi had made it clear he didn't need or want my help.
And yet, as I turned away from the medical station, my feet carried me not toward safety, but back toward the chaos I had just escaped.
I didn't understand it myself—this compulsion drawing me back to the square, back to Tarshi. It made no sense. He was Talfen, I was human. He had helped create this devastation, however unwittingly. He represented everything I had been taught to hate, to fear.
And yet I couldn't leave him to face whatever remained of this horror alone.
The square was quieter when I returned, most of the survivors having fled or been evacuated. Smoke still rose from the ruined buildings, and small fires burned here and there among the debris, but the frantic energy of earlier had dissipated, leaving behind a desolate stillness that felt almost more terrible than the chaos had been.
I scanned the area, searching for any sign of Tarshi among the destruction. For a moment, I feared I had lost him—that he had moved on to another part of the city, or worse, that he had been caught in yet another explosion while I was gone.
Then I saw him, emerging from one of the few buildings still standing on the far side of the square. He carried something in his hands—a device similar to the one I had watched him disarm beneath the reviewing stand. His movements were careful, deliberate, as he set it down on the cobblestones and straightened, wincing as the motion jarred his broken arm.
The afternoon sunlight broke through the pall of smoke and dust, falling across him like a revelation. I had seen Tarshi countless times before—in the arena, in training, in quiet moments of respite—but never as I saw him now, illuminated in golden light that transformed destruction into something almost sacred.
His powerful frame stood defiant against the backdrop of ruin, broad shoulders set with determination despite the pain that creased his brow. Blood and soot streaked his ebony skin yet somehow enhanced rather than diminished the fierce beauty of his features—the strong jaw, the high cheekbones, the full lips pressed into a grim line of concentration. His white hair, normally braided tight against his scalp in intricate patterns, had partially come loose, strands of it falling across his forehead like strokes of ivory against canvas.
