His power slowly crushes my internal organs as I lie on theground, winded and vaguely shocked I’m still conscious; he picks me up and I’m dumped back in the clearing.
Darkan's presence vanishes, leaving an internal void that momentarily paralyzes me.
Quiet, not even birdsong or the groaning of my injured warriors, the quiet of a graveyard. I blink, shoving aside despair. I won't die grief-stricken.
The flame-thrower steps closer. Blackness creeps up my hand, disappearing under my cuff, the pain nothing I've ever felt. I cling to consciousness. What form of Skill is this. Poison? Rot? What else can these damn High Fae do?
I focus on her, wishing some of the venom I feel could be directly translated into a dagger in her gut. This is shit. Utter horseshit. And overkill. This is why no one likes the fucking High Fae.
“You fought well, child,” she says. “But you're young, and your human blood makes you unfit, ultimately. If our people are to thrive in this Realm, we must cull the weak. Thank you for your sacrifice.”
Only one dagger? No, and not in her gut, not when she has two perfectly stabbable eyes.
“Stop toying with her,” the male says. He stares through the tree line. “Kill her quickly.”
“I'd rather you did it,” I croak. “As a favor to me.”
He won't bother with the torture I see in her gaze. Not that physical pain matters, with the emotional pain crushing my chest. He studies my crumpled body with a flat expression, then nods, glancing at his partner. She frowns but shrugs and walks away.
The male crouches at my feet. “It will be quick.”
He touches his fingers to my temple. I don't have the strength to lift my head. My ribs are broken, blood trickling from my nose and mouth reminding me I am both alive and about to die. My breathing comes in labored gasps.
Darkan abandoned me. Or maybe it's that so close to death, I don't need my splinter self anymore.
Damn it, I don't want to die this way. My avatar uncoils, peeking up and. . .out. Ignoring me. What is it watching? Stupid thing.
“Help me get on my knees,” I say, voice hoarse with the effort to hold back a storm of screaming. “You can give me that much.”
He does as I ask. “What does it matter? Low Fae foolishness.”
I grimace. “It matters.”
When on my knees with some semblance of dignity, he reaches out his hand. I don't flinch.
Juliette is dead.
Numair is dead.
None of my warriors escaped.
I close my eyes for a moment, shuddering. Gathering enough strength to die with honor. Anything to end this tsunami of grief and failure.
The enemy warriors watch me beyond the High Fae shield and if I am the last they will see of Muriel Kuthliele’s line, they will witness our blood facing eradication with honor.
Gathering my pride, I lift my head and give him a slight, grim smile, hoping he doesn't note my unshed tears. They aren't for me. I never shied from death.
“Do it.”
Chapter
Seven
WAKE THE PRINCE
A plague o' both your houses!
—Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 1
