The two crows caw loudly and soar into the distance.
Praxis falls to the ground, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping open as he struggles to clutch at the arrow protruding from his body.
My guards step closer to me, practically standing on top of me. Shouts pierce the air, Bloodstone warriors calling out to each other and running toward the source of the light in the distance. The source the crows have already discovered as they chase after someone wearing all black.
Horror impales me as I kneel beside Praxis and try to stifle the hot flow of blood. It pours through my fingers, refusing to be stifled.
No. No. No!
“It wasmytime to saveyou,” he says, through the blood bubbling out of his mouth.
Pain rips through my chest and settles against my heart.
Please, help me, Olah.
Frantically, I draw inward, pleading for that light, that healing, that renewal. It doesn’t surface. I chant the verses over and over, but they don’t mend anything.
Please.
I exhale and try again, shouting those healing verses, begging the gods to answer me.
They don’t answer.
They don’t care.
Praxis lets out a shuddering breath, and I scream into the cold, unforgiving wind.
“Don’t you dare take him!”
Louder and louder, I say those ancient words, but they don’t work. They are powerless. Meaningless.
His eyes dim and focus beyond my shoulder.
“No!” I shake him, but he doesn’t inhale. “Breathe, please breathe.”
He doesn’t breathe.
His eyes don’t blink.
More Bloodstone barbarians scramble to where I kneel next to Praxis. As they pull him away from me, I stand and gulp in the crisp air.
This cannot be happening.
Please.
I ball my fingers into fists and plead to the gods who do not care. With the sun blinding me, my guards hurry me away. Internally, I beg for a miracle. Any kind of miracle.
It doesn’t happen.
I have failed him.
* * *
“What happened?” Hector asks.
I remain motionless by the fire, my hands still stained with Praxis’ blood. My lips still quivering with the words that weren’t enough to heal him.
“Sol.”
