Page 97 of Fate of Echoes and Embers
My father’s words echoed in my ears. I would not allow Hawthorne to be reduced to embers, a once-flaming beacon of hope for all humans that we could survive even with Elydorian opposition at our doorsteps.
If we fight, we lose.
I stopped struggling. Allowed Draven to believe he’d subdued me. With my free hand, I reached down to my boot, dragging behind me in the dirt. Taking a deep breath, summoning every bit of strength left in me, I began to wriggle and kick so Draven was forced to stop.
When you strike, make it count. A wounded stag is dangerous.
I would make it count.
Circling my arm and aiming for his chest, I didn’t hesitate. The knife embedded itself with a sickening thud that I would never forget. One moment, my wrist felt as if it were being crushed in a vice. The next, it was free and my head bounced off of the ground.
The next, Draven was above me, screaming in pain and rage. But then, he was lifted from the ground and tossed as if he were a sack of wheat. Adren stood above me, watching him. But he didn’t move. Even when Draven attempted to stand, something I couldn’t do. Instead, I watched from my dirt bed, the courtyard grass tickling my cheek.
Marek.
His hand was lifted, though I couldn’t see what was happening. Adren scooped me up into his arms, and for better or worse, I had a clear view now of the same water ties he’d used on the Gyorian being tightened around Draven’s throat.
“He’s gone, Marek,” Adren called to him.
He either didn’t hear him, or didn’t care. His fingers twisted and I looked away.
“Draven is dead,” Adren yelled, so loud, it was like a clap of thunder.
A twist of water, like a beacon, rose from in front of Marek up into the sky. With it, the winds stopped. Everything stopped. My head throbbed. My wrist, I was all but certain, was broken. I’d close my eyes, just for a moment.
And then, blessedly, it all went black.
40
MAREK
“Don’t get up too quickly.”
Issa’s hand flew to her head.
“Ouch.” She looked past me. “I’m in my bedchamber.”
“Astute,” I teased. “What’s my name?”
“Marek, be serious.”
“Close enough.”
Jesting aside, it was a relief that she was alert. I’d seen head injuries fell the best of warriors, and from how long she had been out, she must have hit the ground hard.
“My wrist.” She lifted it into the air. It was wrapped with silkspore, Hawthorne’s healer as adept as they came.
“Adren noticed the bruises. We don’t believe the bone is broken but?—”
“What happened?” she interrupted me, attempting to sit up in her bed. I pushed her shoulder back gently.
“Not yet,” I reminded her.
“Marek—”
“Hawthorne is safe. The mercenaries were run out, none willing to sacrifice themselves with Draven dead. No one else was injured. At least, not seriously injured.”
“Except Draven.”
