25. Cross

Around me, faces blur and flicker in a demented twist of shadows. I flinch, jerk away from the darkness, fearful it’ll swallow me, but I’m strapped down, at the wrists, the ankles, my stomach, chest, thighs. Everywhere.

I’m doomed to be suffocated by my own gift. Snuffed out like a candle at the end of its wick.

There’s no grace in this death. Heracles died on a pyre of his own making. Theseus fell into the sea. Jason burned in the arms of his wife.

The deaths of heroes.

I will die on a cot in a safehouse surrounded by strangers, choking on thin, black air, like quitters do. Like men who lose their purpose. Who take their divine gifts and hoard them.

I shout at a terrible pain in my forearm. Needles bite muscle, scab bone.

My skull throbs in a relentless rhythm, drowning out the swarm of voices. A chaotic mix of whispers and shouts. All I want to hear is Leni.

Her voice.

Her sigh against my mouth.

Could I have fixed it for her? If I hadn’t quit, would she be safe? Free?

Would she have benefitted from the fruit of the Kingsguard’s struggle if the Blackguard had continued their work?

I’m dizzy.

Liquid hits tile in timed splats, not measly drips but splashes. Blood expelled by an overbeating heart.

Dark shapes surround me.

I told them about Leni. Did they betray me? I scream at them. Scream I want her back. My soul.

I’m consumed with her, drowning in her, in every fiber of my being. Must find her. Save her.

You’re not a hero.

Every breath of agony is a cruel countdown to Leni’s descent. Eternity with a male she despises. A male she fears.

The same fear courses through me, fueling an anger so intense, not even the curse can put me down. I’m delirious, hyperventilating, thrashing. Stars glint behind my eyes. I choke them out, and feed my rage, shoveling energy and hate into it until it’s alive. Until it traps the terror in my chest and slips me horrible, sickening hope.

Draven dead. Burning for every mark on Leni’s delicate skin, every flinch he forced out of her. His skin ripping, blood spilling.

I’ll come for him.

I’ll hunt him with a smile on my face.

Pain threshes up my leg like an iron whip, blinds me. Someone jerks me—no.

My spine has snapped.

Shouts bump against the haze of pain.

Rough hands shove me down, merciless as the spikes claws up my throat and I’m forced flat on a cold and unyielding surface. I’m gasping, screaming. Convulsing.

Blood fills my mouth and then I’m choking. My lungs are heavy, and three ribs break in succession. Heavy, brittle chains slam into me, punishing my hips, my stomach, my throat, securing me in the darkness.

I’m yelling, panting, writhing, dripping sweat and blood and shadow.

Yet a singular thought burns ethereal through the anguish.

I’ll survive this.

I’ll fight and endure and bleed and suffer until the curse bends to me. And when it breaks, I’m coming for her, and no one, no God or king, will stand in my way.