Page 127 of The Shadowed Oracle
Enitha was cut short.
Everything and everyone on the dock moved too rapidly to make sense of. In all of Ingrid’s planning, all her angles, evenshe didn’t see it coming. Because it was she who made the move. She’d lost any semblance of control she clung to—thoughtless, not breathing—and broke into a full sprint toward Enitha with her dagger waving wildly at her side.
She barely had time to regret it.
As if she’d been hit by an invisible brick wall, she was restrained, chained to something or someone before she could fully understand what she’d done. What she’d caused with her senseless, useless attack.
“Lovely,” Enitha hissed. “I will enjoy this.”
The queen’s face filled with nauseating glee as she followed through with her threat. Just a simple wave of her hand. That was all it took. Gesturing with the hand wielding that black magic, and suddenly Callinora awoke from her cloudy haze.
At first, the princess looked relieved, like she’d come up for air after being held underwater for a lifetime. But slowly, she sank back into it. Back into the deep darkness that Enitha had promised.
“Stop this!” Veston called out. “Stop at once!”
His pleas went unanswered.
Gasping, writhing, clawing at her restraints, Callinora screamed until the vessels in her eyes burst. She struggled and retched and shrieked. Cried and groaned and begged.
The binding symbols. Enitha was burning them into the princess’s chest, her neck, her arms, her face. Even from where she stood, Ingrid could smell the flesh scorching. Hear the markings going deeper and deeper into the skin.
Bile rose in her throat, and now she too was tossing her body recklessly, trying to break free of whatever held her.
“Don’t move,” a voice droned directly into her ear.
Ingrid looked down at herself. Her arms had been pinned behind her. She was no longer on her feet. Slowly coming out ofher rage-induced stupor, she made out a forearm squeezing her around her waist.
Sylan. The bastard prince had subdued her with only one arm, and without breaking a sweat. Tyla had said he was fast, but Ingrid hadn’t even registered his movements. Like he’d vanished and reappeared behind her within the same millisecond.
“Same goes for you,” Sylan barked at Tyla and Veston. “Do. Not. Move.” Turning his sights on the Magus Queen, he added. “It’s over. Take your prisoners. And I take mine.”
“Is that a command?” Enitha scoffed. “In my own kingdom?”
Sylan vibrated with amusement. “Yes,” he said plainly.
Enitha stilled. Her hands lowered to her side, that roiling black power fading. The only pride she kept was in her upright posture, feigning indifference as she said, “Very well. I was growing bored of this anyway. The arena is being prepared as we speak.”
Sylan didn’t make a sound as his hands slithered down Ingrid and tightened at her waist. With a fluid upward pull, he threw her over his shoulder and carried her away. Away from Tyla, away from Veston, past her spellbound and unresponsive friends, and finally onto the anchored ship’s ramp.
Ingrid had no voice left to scream in protest. No hope left to fight. No sense left to scheme. All she had was desperation.
“Let me stay,” she said quietly, defeated. “If my friends are going to die, I want to be with them as it happens.”
Sylan slowed at the top of the slipway. “Did you say something, Oracle?”
“Let me stay,” she repeated.
Bending forward, Sylan slid her off his shoulders and planted her on the wooden planks, just inches from the ship that would take them back out into the Jemii Sea. To Hydor. To Makkar.
“Why?” Sylan asked. There was no hint of anger or confusion, only base curiosity.
“Yes, do tell us!” Enitha beckoned. “So eager to see your friends in pieces?”
Ingrid wondered at that. Whatwasher goal? Her plan? She hadn’t had time to think about it. Why did leaving them now seem so wrong? So horrid? When the most likely outcome was watching them die violently, unjustly. It would be another memory added to the long, ghastly list. One that would haunt her all the way to her own inevitable end.
She looked to Tyla first, seeing a fire in her eyes, evidence she’d fight until she could fight no more. If there was a sliver of an opening, she’d cut off her limbs to fit through. Then she looked to Dean, to Raidinn, to the disfigured but still conscious Callinora. In that condition, they’d all be helpless. Yet after all she’d seen from Enitha, she doubted they’d be put at such a disadvantage when the time came to be put on the stage. In the arena.
Entertainment. That was what this usurper queen sought, and a half-slumbering soldier was about as enthralling as a corpse.
