Page 199 of The Jasad Crown
I had imagined different scenarios for the aftermath of raising the fortress. Option one: burn to death. Not ideal, but at least it would have been fast and final. Option two: go mad. Again, not ideal, but I had assumed the combined force of the Urabi would be enough to execute me before I caused any real damage.
Eternal entrapment had not been one of my scenarios. If it had been, I might have escaped in the waterfall that first week in the Gibal.
What I could not bear was the thought of leaving Jasad trapped behind me. Barricaded behind this fortress as they had been for hundreds of years, their magic dwindling on the other side, cut off from the kingdoms during the most widespread political upheaval the land had seen in centuries.
I thought about Raya opening gold-and-silver eyes, my magic coursing through a woman with purely Omalian roots.
A crack thundered across the surface of the fortress.
So much magic had been poured into this fortress. Magic that would do nothing for the people on the other side but isolate them for however much longer Jasadi magic lasted.
You can spend your entire existence frozen in one spot, squinting into the future, or you can decide to move. Pick a path and never look back.
Cracks raced over the resin surface of the Jasad fortress. The splinters grew, a low rumble sending tremors through the land.
I slammed my fist into the fortress, and it imploded.
Streaks of silver and gold rained over the crowd. Specks of it twirled in the air like bright dust, twinkling cheerily. Streaks of color raced across the sky as the magic inside the fortress crashed onto the people inside Janub Aya, subsuming them. Some of them dropped to the ground beneath the onslaught, while others started heaving. The Jasadis recovered fastest, their stores of magic revived in double, its colors shining brightest in their eyes.
Jasad’s future would not be spent in hiding. It would not languish, isolated and afraid, suffocating as its magic drained away.
Without the fortress, nothing but mist stood between me and Arin.
He was bowed forward, bracing his knuckles against the ground. The raven had torn open Arin’s vest and shirt, and I saw its dark imprint settling over the Commander’s heart. A raven etching against his skin to match the ones on his coat.
Jeru appeared behind Arin, bending to his new Supreme. Silver and gold flickered in the guardsman’s eyes. I checked behind him for Sefa and spotted Maia and Namsa, petting Sefa’s hand and nudging a water pouch against her unmoving lips. My magic had crashed into her and settled like a tepid pool, forgotten beneath the storm of her grief.
The Jasadis and Nizahlans had begun to collect their dead. I saw Lateef arguing with a soldier next to Marek’s body and had to turn away.
A noise of guttural agony tore out of Arin. Jeru stumbled back as gold and silver rushed through Arin’s veins.
The Supreme began to change.
His skin, always sickly pale and nearly translucent, took on a healthier glow. The cuts and scrapes on his body disappeared—including the scar on his jaw from Soraya’s murder attempt.
Arin threw his head back, vines of magic winding up his throat. Arin’s hair—the beautiful silver hair floating around his face like his personal storm cloud, the hair that declared him anywhere he went, the hair I had twisted in my fingers in abandon—began to darken. Hair dark as the blackest night replaced the silver storm cloud, framing his lovely face.
Hanim’s hair. Odd to think that if it hadn’t been for Rawain draining Arin’s magic, Arin might have grown up the spitting image of his mother.
Still gorgeous. Still Arin. We were both a new and old version of ourselves, now.
“Rovial’s tainted tomb,” Jeru whispered, awed.
I snickered.
The mist swirled around my chest. I called Jeru’s name, and when he met my gaze, a new panic seemed to spark in him. I shook my head and pointed to Arin. I hoped my message was clear. I hoped he understood.
When he comes after me, stop him.
I drank in the sight of Arin one last time.
I chose you, I thought.Even if it might not seem like it now.
I retreated into the mist. Gripping the rope for balance, I found the spot where the Awalas had torn out Rovial’s magic lifetimes ago. A part of it had died here, furious and betrayed and ravenous for revenge.
I allowed myself to listen to Jasad as I never would again. I listened to Jeru shouting for help as Arin shoved the guardsman outof his way and stormed toward the bridge. The soldiers’ pounding footsteps, tackling their Supreme to the ground in a number even Arin could not overcome. The slow and sluggish rhythm of Sefa’s heart, still beating despite its wounds. Efra, of all people, joining Lateef to shove the Nizahl soldier away from Marek’s body and snap, “He is one of us. He died on Jasad’s side. He is ours.”
Warmth spread through me. I gripped the rope, leaning over the edge. They would survive this. They would be all right.
