The Sharpest Blade

I’m off-balance—I don’t even have my full weight behind the punch—but hate fills his silver eyes. Still holding my wrist, he shoves me into the wall. I go for his eyes, knowing I have only seconds to maim and kill him before he maims and kills me.

My nails scratch down his face. He hisses, shakes my wrist again, and this time, I lose my grip on my sword. It falls uselessly to the carpeted floor as the fae slams me into the wall again. My head hits so hard, my vision blackens. When it clears, my attacker raises his sword to my shoulder. His blade is sharp, so sharp I don’t immediately feel the skin peel away from my muscle as he slides it down my arm, following the path of one of my chaos lusters.

Agony surges through Kyol—he’s trying to move, trying to make his way to me—and his emotions scream for me to run. I try. The blood sliding down my arm makes my skin slick. The fae loses his grip on my wrist, and I turn and run even though I know it’s virtually impossible to escape.

I make it back into the hall, then into the next room. As I slam the door shut, I note there’s another dead woman on the bed in here. I don’t have time to process what that means; I’m trapped. There’s no other door to exit through. There’s not even a window.

Reaching down to my left hip, I take out the dagger that’s sheathed there and wait for the fae to kick open the door. Instead, he slowly turns the knob.

I clench my teeth hard enough to make my jaw ache. I’m human. The fae is toying with me. He thinks he has all the time in the world to be slow and deliberate, but screw him. I grab the edge of the door as it’s easing open, jerking it toward me as I thrust out with my dagger.

I’m aiming low—toward his groin since his torso is covered by jaedric armor. I end up slicing into his hip. Not a lethal wound, but he roars as if I’ve just struck his heart.

I think he roars, at least. Everything is still magically muffled, and I’m concentrating on the sword in his hand.

The door protects me from his enraged attack. His blade sinks into the wood, giving me the half second I need to strike again.

This time, I watch where I aim, and my dagger stabs up and under the jaedric and into the center of his gut. Then, as if I’ve done it a thousand times before, I twist the knife inside of him.

I don’t flinch or look away when his eyes widen. I memorize his face, the sharp nose, his black eyebrows and eyelashes, and I note the name-cord braided into his hair. Light from a magically lit orb reflects off the cord’s red and black stones just before his body disappears. His soul-shadow replaces it a second later. The white mist encircles my hand and the weapon I’m holding, before it rises and gradually fades.

I stare down at my dagger’s surprisingly clean blade. My hand isn’t clean, though. It’s red with the fae’s blood.

Numb, I slide the blade back into its sheath.

“McKenzie.” Kyol’s voice is so weak, I’m not sure if it’s in my head. I stagger against the wall, then use it as a crutch to inch back toward the hallway.

“Kyol?” I hear my own voice. The magical silence has lifted, probably because I killed the fae maintaining it.

I shouldn’t have been able to kill him. I should be dead.

My hand leaves a streak of red across the wall. My arm throbs, but it’s my mind that’s truly hurting. It’s being crushed by the weight of the life-bond.

“Kyol,” I call again.

“Taltrayn!”

I step into the hall as his surname is called out. It’s not until the fae steps into view that I recognize the voice’s owner.

“Sidhe,” Lena murmurs, grabbing my arm as I sway.

“Help him,” I manage to say.

Lena lowers me to the ground, barks an order at her guards, then leaves my side.

I don’t know how long I stay there, doubled over and digging my fingers into my knees. It feels like I’m crouched on the edge of eternity. If Kyol doesn’t survive, I’ll pitch over into an abyss. I can feel the life-bond drawing me toward it. I fight to keep my balance, and in my mind, I grab hold of the strand of light that connects us and pull. Kyol has to stay on my side of eternity. He has to.

At first, all I get from him is a loud silence, a static of a thousand weak emotions. Gradually, some of those emotions strengthen. One in particular snakes its way through the life-bond: concern. It’s for me, of course. He’s always so worried about me. I wish I didn’t know that, wish I couldn’t feel just how much he cares. If he hated me or at least cared a little less, my decisions wouldn’t hurt him half as much as they do.

Bracing myself, I open my eyes and look up. My heart does a somersault when I do. Lena is kneeling beside him at the end of the hallway, but his stormy gaze is focused on me, and it feels as if a tidal wave moves through the air. Kyol’s always had a tangible presence. Without seeing him, you know when he steps into a room, and even injured like he is, he gives off the impression that he could annihilate an entire army with just one practiced swing of his sword.

And that’s why it scares me to see him like this. Kyol was King Atroth’s sword-master. He’s Lena’s lord general. He knows how to kick his enemies’ asses, and I’ve never seen him hurt this badly.

Breaking eye contact, I use the wall for support and rise to my feet. God, I feel weak, like I’m the one who’s lost half my weight in blood. My arm isn’t bleeding that much. It’s not a minor wound, but it’s nothing near as serious as the injuries Kyol has.

I inventory those injuries as I make my way to his side. Lena’s taken off his armor and cut open his shirt. Her long, slender hands are on his abdomen, and if the blood covering him is any indication, that’s the wound that almost sent him to the ether. It’s making him hold his breath now. My stomach clenches in sympathy when Lena puts pressure on the injury, but I’m thankful she’s here. Lena and Aren are the only healers I know now. It’s a rare magical ability that’s in huge demand with all the violence in the Realm, and it’s the only thing that’s going to ensure Kyol lives now.

Seconds tick by. Sweat glistens on Lena’s forehead, and her face is taught and pale. After she finishes with that wound, she takes his left fist in her hand and forces him to relax it. When he does, blood gushes from his mutilated palm. It’s not just a deep cut; at least two bones are broken. Maybe more. A wave of dizziness passes over me as I crouch beside him.

“Steady,” Kyol whispers. His eyes are closed again, but his right hand reaches for mine. I intertwine my fingers with his and move closer. A warm, solid relief runs through our connection. Being close to me makes him feel whole. It makes me feel whole, too.

My heart shudders at that realization. It’s wrong. A month ago, Aren was the one who made me feel complete. The only thing that’s changed between then and now is the bond, and I won’t let myself be manipulated by magic. I need to shut down my thoughts and feelings. I need to be clinical, objective.

But I need Kyol to feel better. I should slide my hand free from his, but I don’t. I tighten my grip and lend him whatever strength I can. It’s not enough. He grimaces in pain.

I can’t stand to see him hurt, so I turn my attention to Lena. That’s when I see the staircase behind her. Kyol is leaning against the wall at its base. When I first got here he was on the third floor. He’s on the second now.