Page 88 of The Ascended
But his words faded into static as the gray closed in.
Chapter 22
Bloodloss
Consciousness returnedto me in fragments—the whisper of silk against bare skin, the sharp tang of citrus and dark wood, the bone-deep ache that meant I'd danced too closely with death.
My skull felt as if someone had taken a war hammer to it and decided a few extra swings couldn't hurt. When I dared crack my eyes open, the world tilted and spun like a ship in a storm.
Surroundings slowly came into focus—my quarters in the Bone Spire, with their dark elegance and that ever-present view of the Black Sea through tall windows. But something was different.
"Don't move." Xül's voice cut through from somewhere across the room. "You lost a lot of blood."
Through the haze, I found him sprawled in a chair he must have brought from his own chambers. One ankle crossed over his knee with lazy elegance and a book balanced in those long fingers, firelight turning his bronze skin to a warm gold. His braids hung loose, each bead and ring glimmering.
"Why are you in my room?" I croaked.
"Someone had to ensure you didn't die in your sleep." He turned a page without looking up. "You've been unconscious for two days."
Memory crashed back in waves. The trial. The creatures. The beacon. My hand flew to my forehead, finding thick bandages where the metal horns had erupted from my skull. My ankle throbbed like a second heartbeat, wrapped tight enough to cut off circulation.
"Thatcher," I managed, trying to sit up.
"Alive. In Bellarium. Recovering from his own collection of holes." He still didn't look up from his book. "He dragged you to the beacon. Very heroic."
Relief flooded me so suddenly I nearly sobbed. "How many survived?"
"Twenty-five." His voice carried no emotion. "Down from thirty-seven. Quite the bloodbath."
Twenty-five. Gods. Twelve people had died in that forest. And I had killed one of them.
I'd wondered how I'd react the first time I took someone's life—what would drive me to it, and whether I'd be consumed by guilt or find some way to justify it. The truth, it turned out, was far more complicated than I'd imagined.
He'd been a person. Someone with a life before this nightmare. The trial had trapped him just as surely as it had trapped me—volunteer or not, none of us had truly chosen this horror. In another world, we might have been allies. We might have helped each other survive.
But in this world, he'd made a choice. Instead of competing, he'd chosen to kill Marx when the trial didn't demand it. He could have focused on the hunt, could have done a dozen things that didn't involve murdering someone who'd never threatened him. Instead, he'd looked at her and decided she was an obstacle to eliminate.
So I'd made my own choice. The knife had left my hand before I'd fully processed the decision, driven by instinct and desperation and the absolute certainty that I couldn't watch her die. Not when I had the power to stop it.
I wasn't sorry I saved her. But that also meant I wasn't sorry he was dead, and I'd have to find a way to carry thatsomehow.
"Marx?" My throat felt like I'd been swallowing glass.
"Survived. The boy as well." He closed his book with a soft snap. "Your little alliance served you well."
I tried to swing my legs over the side of the bed, but Xül was there in an instant, hands firm on my shoulders, pushing me back down.
"I said don't move." His voice brooked no argument. "You have a rather nasty wound on that leg. Move too soon and you'll do permanent damage."
"Who changed my clothes?" I was wearing a loose, red shirt that clung to me.
Smugness radiated off of him. "Who do you think?"
My face flared red, betraying me "You?—"
"Relax. I was perfectly gentle." His eyes glittered. "And I took my time."
I pulled the sheet higher, which only made his smile widen.
