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Thea twirled her blade casually, taking a step forward. ‘Well done, Artos. But you see, I’m not the heir of Delmira, not by the line of succession. I’m not the future queen.’
Artos laughed darkly. ‘Oh, but you are. You are the firstborn daughter of Queen Brigh and King Soren Embervale.’
Thea met his gaze with a cold stare of her own. ‘No, I’m not.’
She stepped back, pulling Wilder with her, just as darkness erupted before them, and Anya emerged from the shadows, balls of lightning crackling in her palms. ‘That would be me,’ she said, and hurled her magic at Artos.
Thunder roared overhead as bolts of lightning shot for the king.
Thea could no longer ignore the storm in her veins. She sheathed her blade, unleashing her own magic in a tidal wave.
Together, she and Anya blasted the king’s guard into oblivion, their lightning bolts flashing, wrapping around Artos himself as he screamed and screamed.
Thea expected to feel the scrape of his empath ability against her senses, but there was nothing, only his shrieks as the electrical current seared his flesh through his armour.
Artos’ body sagged in its bonds, and he looked to Thea, his green eyes wide. ‘Thank you,’ he uttered cryptically, before he passed out.
All around them, the fighting ceased. The air was thick with the scent of spilt blood and the haunting cries of the wounded. Broken bodies lay strewn across the snow like discarded chess pieces on a board, their armour stained crimson.
The sounds of surrender echoed across the bloody plains. Blades being dropped in the snow, the final gasps of the fallen…
‘Put him in chains,’ Anya barked at a nearby soldier, thrusting her scythe at Artos’ limp form. ‘Take him away.’
As the power thrumming at Thea’s fingertips ebbed away, she fought to fill her lungs with enough air. What little remained of Artos’ forces were surrendering, if they hadn’t already fled for the mountains.
‘We… we won?’ she said hoarsely, to no one in particular.
Wilder’s stoic presence at her shoulder settled her. ‘Barely,’ he replied. ‘But yes.’
The taste of victory was bittersweet, for their triumph had come at a great cost. Thea inhaled her first deep breath in hours. ‘Artos is our prisoner…’
‘He is.’
Her body sagged with relief, the aches and pains of battle slowly seeping in. ‘Now what?’ she asked bluntly, spotting Anya, Talemir and Vernich overseeing Artos’ imprisonment.
Wilder put an arm around her, drawing her close despite the blood and guts that covered them both. ‘Now, we —’
‘Thea!’ someone shouted, panic lacing their voice. ‘Thea!’
She whirled on her heels to see Cal racing towards her, Wren not far behind him. Cal’s face was covered in grime, but there was no mistaking the tear tracks down his cheeks.
Thea’s blood went cold. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s Kipp,’ he panted, tugging on her arm, hauling her through the bloody slush. ‘He’s wounded. Badly.’
Thea’s mind and body threatened to shut down as Cal dragged her to the broken heart of the battlefield, through the corpses, severed limbs and discarded weapons that littered the snow.
‘How bad?’ she heard herself ask, but Cal didn’t answer.
She could hear the others crashing through the mess behind her, but she didn’t look back to see who had followed, only forward, scanning the injured soldiers scattered across the ice, searching for a familiar head of auburn hair.
Then she saw him.
Kipp lay in the arms of the Bear Slayer, an arachne fang protruding from his chest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THEA
