Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 229266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1146(@200wpm)___ 917(@250wpm)___ 764(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 229266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1146(@200wpm)___ 917(@250wpm)___ 764(@300wpm)
Quentyn lowered the shield, and I popped back up as I placed an arrow over the bow.
“Do you see him?” Quentyn asked, releasing an arrow. “The Prince?”
I shook my head as I surveyed the chaos below. There was too much going on—there were too many. I could barely even see the Guardians’ flaming swords in the clash of regular swords and bodies. “He’ll be okay,” I told Quentyn—told myself—as I pulled back the string, forgetting about the knights. I focused on the soldiers, going through a quiver of ammunition before several of them broke through the wolven and Guardians. A dozen or more reached the door. The shouts from below caused my gift to swell inside me. I knew they were going to make it inside.
Another wave of arrows went up, and I cursed as we ducked under the shield again. Several clattered off, hitting the floor beside us. Screams tore through the air. My gaze swung in the direction of the stairs. There weren’t enough out there to hold them back. They’d keep coming, just like Craven would. They’d swarm us before the larger army even arrived.
And I was up here, hiding behind a shield.
My gaze met Quentyn’s. “You’re really good with a bow?”
He nodded. “I think so.”
“Good. Cover me.”
“What?” His golden eyes widened.
“When you see me down there, cover me.” I dropped the bow.
“You can’t go out there! Casteel—I mean, the Prince will—”
“Expect little else from me,” I told him. “Cover me.”
Without waiting, I darted toward the stairs, unsheathing my dagger as I raced past the gruesome gifts. I sped down the winding staircase, my steps slowing as I heard the clang of stone against stone.
They’d made it inside the Rise.
I inched down the rest of the steps, keeping close to the wall.
A body stumbled across the mouth of the stairs, falling to the ground. A Royal Guard appeared. All I saw was a young face splattered with blood. A face too young. Blue eyes. Did he know what he fought for? He had to. He had been out there when the Duchess spoke. It didn’t matter either way.
Sword dripping with blood, he halted for a fraction of a second. That was all I needed. I sprang forward, shoving the dagger under his chin. His breath gurgled as he pinwheeled backward, the sword clanging off the ground.
Stepping out of the stairwell, I switched the dagger to my left hand and picked up the fallen sword. Testing its weight, I scanned the torch-lit yard, the bodies standing and the ones falling. And then I did what Vikter had taught me through our hours of training.
I closed it down.
Shut it all down.
The horror. What my eyes wanted my brain and heart to recognize. The fear, especially the fear—of being injured, of stumbling, of missing my mark, of dying—of losing those I cared about. Vikter had once told me that when you fought, you had to do so as if each breath may be your last.
I stalked forward, the cloak billowing out from behind me, catching in the blood-rich wind. And all I saw when a soldier turned to me were the faces of their gifts.
The soldier raised his sword, his face a mask of violence. There were different kinds of bloodlust. What vampry and Ascended felt, and what mortals experienced when violence spilled into the air. I dipped under his arm, spinning back as I thrust the sword into his back. Yanking the blade free, I turned, shoving the dagger deep into the chest of another soldier. The bloodstone pierced leather and bone.
Whirling, I sliced through the neck of a soldier who went to drive their sword down on one who’d fallen. Wet warmth hit my cheeks as I turned, shoving my elbow into the throat of another. Bones crunched and air wheezed behind me as the pain of those around me scraped even harder at my senses.
Reaching up, I tore free the buttons at my neck. The hood slipped down, and I shrugged off the cloak. It fell to the ground behind me as I broke into a run, racing out of the Rise and into the battle we were sure to lose.
It was…madness.
Swords crashing against swords. Screams of pain and shouts of fury. Glimpses of fur and thick claws and flaming swords as the Guardians cut through mortal and vampry alike.
A man moaned as he clutched his bloodied stomach. He was a Descenter, and I started to stop, to either ease his pain or heal him—
An arrow whizzed past my head, striking a guard rushing toward me. Quentyn was very good with a bow.
I stepped back from the fallen man, knowing that now was not the time for that particular set of skills. As much as it hurt, as wrong as it felt, I turned away.
And then…I fell into the madness as I thrust my sword into the stomach of a soldier who couldn’t have been much older than I was. I let my thirst for vengeance seize me as my blade sliced through the neck of another. I didn’t hesitate or pull back when I saw recognition flare in the eyes the moment they saw the scars on my face. It took only moments out on the field to know that they’d been given orders not to harm me. It was clear they didn’t expect me to be down here, to be fighting, and it was an advantage for me, one I used. Because orders from an Ascended hadn’t sent me out here. I chose to be here. I kicked out, catching a knight at the knees before he could lift the spiked ball he wielded. He fell to his back, and I drove the sword down.