Page 193 of Skalterra By Nightmare
“So you are tempting me to become the first.”
The cold wood of the floor against my bare feet sent a fresh shiver up my spine. My ribs ached, and I held a shuddering arm over them, as if to keep myself in one piece.
I bit down on my tongue to keep from crying out when I tried to stand.
Something heavy settled over my shoulders, and I flinched away from Ciarán as he draped his cloak over me.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“Your body isn’t used to using Skal, and you used a lot to free the Frozen God.” He let me lean into him as I staggered to my feet.
“Stop calling her that.”
“Is that another order?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you prefer I call her?”
“Ethel. Or Gams. I don’t think she’d mind if you called her Gams.”
He was sturdy beneath me, and his armor smelled of fresh leather.
“I’m not going to call the Frozen God ‘Gams’.”
The hallway was narrow, and he lit a fire in his free palm to light the way down a set of wooden steps. Jonquil chased after us, purring at Ciarán’s heels. I hated that I needed his help, but I was grateful to have him to lean against.
“Sorcha said you broke your ribs, and you vomited blood, so she thinks you have an ulcer,” Ciarán said as we navigated the stairs. “Holding in too much Skal can do that.”
“I never had that issue before.”
“You were a Nightmare before. You were made of Skal. It was different.”
Holding in Skal would break my bones and rip open my stomach. Using too much Skal would turn me into a rotsbane.
I wasn’t sure I was cut out to be a Magician, much less the granddaughter of one of the four most powerful Magicians to ever live.
A fire crackled in a massive hearth that overlooked the narrow, vaulted hall of the ground floor. Yellow and orange light bounced off the contours of haggard faces. Two old women ladled liquid out of a steaming pot into mugs made of some sort of animal horn, and an old man shuffled to deliver them to the three girls sitting at the table.
Fana’s dark curls were immediately distinguishable, and she looked up as we came down the bottom step.
“Just-Wren!” she cried.
Orla’s head jerked up next to her.
“Wren!” Orla leapt from the table and barreled into me. Pain shot through my ribs, and I cried out. “Oh, no. I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay,” I insisted. And it was. I was back with Orla. Ciarán released me, letting me lean into my embrace with my friend. She shook with sobs, and I held her as tight as my aching muscles would allow. “Orla, we’re okay.”
“He tricked me.” Her whisper was a heartbroken hiss. “A week ago, Ferrin said he had a special mission for me. I didn’t know he was taking us to the Frozen God. Galahad and the others don’t know. I didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye before we left.”
I pulled away from Orla, and the firelight caught the streams of tears that fell from her face.
“Orla,” I croaked, “Galahad’s dead. Ferrin killed him.”
Her eyes filled with fresh tears.
“No, he didn’t,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t. Ferrin wouldn’t—”
