Page 101 of Oracle of Ruin

The last of the beasts hits the ground, their shadows drifting skyward as dozens of bodies now rest around my feet. I step over one and offer the Oracle a bow.

Something new sparkles in those violet eyes. Excitement, maybe?

No.

Hope.

“Well done, pureblood.”

“Verosa,” I reply, beaming despite the blood and sweat coating my body. “My name is Verosa Iales. Daughter of the light. The last blessed mage. The blood bridge and whatever the fuck else you called me.”

If shadows could smile, Vestíg would be grinning. No, his face would be completely split by the smile judging by the smug energy radiating from him.

The Oracle laughs again, that horrible, dry sound. Then, with a snap of their fingers, the arena disappears from view, leaving us in a library now. “Don’t think things will be so easy, blood bridge.”

Chapter41

Rowan

Roiden has been breathing down my neck since we returned empty handed from our palace raid—empty handed only to his knowledge, and save for the few men we were able to rescue. I have been to visit them a few times now, staying as long as I can bear. One of the men passed the first night. I was unable to look any of them in the eye after that, too ashamed that if maybe we had gathered just a day sooner, the man might have lived. Torin says they are all grateful and none of them blame me, and I believe him. But how can I not blame myself?

The wood creaks above my head and dust settles in the air. Another spy on the roof. Another sign of Roiden’s growing distrust. It has only been three days, but the man has sent countless a spy to the inn. I’ll give credit where credit is due—the bastard is right in his distrust.

Amír and Kya are settled in the corner when I stalk downstairs. Kya’s fingers make quick work of her boot buckles despite the rust from months in the mountains. Amír finishes polishing her pistol and begins on Kya’s many blades, slowly handing them back one at a time. The assassin rewards her with a peck on the cheek as she stores the blades in her old assassin’s suit. The knives disappear amidst the leather as if they were never there. But I know if she were to so much as flick her wrist, she could send them flying at will.

“There’s another spy on the roof. Give me a heads up before you go so I can distract him while you two sneak out from the cellar.”

Amír mock-salutes with a blade. “Yes, sir.”

“They’re not very good,” Kya murmurs under her breath. “They shouldn’t even be called spies if they’re going to have such heavy footsteps.” The assassin pulls a face, insult highlighting her pretty features at the thought of being lumped in with the amateurs Roiden sends.

“His ‘insolent signs of rightful distrust’ is more of a mouthful than ‘spies,’ so excuse my shortcut,” I quip.

The men haven’t been trained and don’t have the innate talent my assassin has. They are mainly farmers or poor men from the outskirts of the city that survived the initial onslaught. They were raised to trek through sewers and stomp to scare off the rats, or tramp through fields on weary feet all day. None of them possess the quiet agility Kya has, and her pride has taken a direct hit at even being slightly compared to the men.

She lolls her head back with a groan and my mother sympathetically pats her shoulder, entering the room with Blaine in tow. She passes a tied leather pouch to each of the women, along with a full canteen.

“This should last you a few days,” she offers.

They accept both gratefully as Amír passes the final espa back to Kya.

“Thank you, Emilie. But I hope we will be back by nightfall tomorrow.”

“The trek should only take half a day, assuming we do not run into any trouble. We gather the iron and go. In then out,” Kya agrees, still accepting the provisions, nonetheless.

“And you come back if you encounter anything you can’t face. If there’s Kijova or the king’s men, you retreat. We will find another way,” I remind them. Even still, I see the rebellious spark in Amír’s eye. She won’t back down, even if a Kijova has her in its gaping maw. Retreat is rarely ever an option. Kya, however, places her hand on the redhead’s arm and nods.

Then out the window, I spot a flash of blond. The spy had ruddy brown hair when I saw him this morning, and judging by the consistent creaking, there hasn’t been a rotation. The outlines of three figures slowly emerge from the tree line behind the inn. Just out of sight, for now.

“Shit,” I swear.

“Dammit, Torin,” Blaine huffs.

We lock our gazes, and soon, I am pushing through our little group, heading for the door. “You two leave now. I am going to draw the spy to the front. Blaine, go with them and bring Torin and his guests through the back while I distract our friend. If he is taking the back entrance, my guess is Roiden doesn’t know about these visitors.”

My crew agrees, springing into action. My mother follows suit, preparing to bolt the door from the inside if necessary, just as we practiced. Roiden is still unaware that my mother is with me, or that I have one at all, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. Every time Vera’s name leaves my lips or my Nightwalkers enter his compound, he has something over me. My mother is the final card he would have to play to take me down, and I can’t risk that. Not with all these lives hanging on my shoulders.Theirlives.

I step into the grass, some of the dew flinging from the stalks to the toe of my leather boots. Spreading my arms skyward, warmth envelops my body, bathing my limbs as the sun’s glow touches everything. Spring has come. The only spring Krycolis ever sees is in the mountains. No doubt if we were still in the inner city, we would be swamped with the heat wave that crests the kingdom almost immediately once the last of the frost melts. Winter is quick but harsh, moving through as swiftly as it comes. Summers are just as extreme, with scalding heat waves ravaging our borders for the majority of the year. Spring exists only in these high altitudes, and fall lasts for a few weeks at most before the cycle begins again.

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