Page 93 of Aryn

None of us are in any condition to fight. We’re filthy, exhausted, and terrified, but we’re still standing because of Aryn. I swallow hard, jaw clenched so tight it hurts, and cast one more glance in the direction he ran. His single set of footprints looks so lonely, so fucking vulnerable, as it disappears between the trees.

I could follow.

I could fight.

But Ronan’s words linger in my head. If Aryn saw me in danger, he’d run to my side in an instant, self-preservation be damned.

Maybe I’d be able to help him.

Maybe I’d fuck it all up.

“Fine,” I rasp, feeling as though I’m severing a limb as I tear my eyes away. “Let’s go.”

The forest is a blur of pain and snow as we start running again. My legs are like lead, but I push harder than I ever have in my life. Every step away from Aryn feels like a knife twisting deeper into my chest. I keep looking back, hoping—praying—I’ll see him burst through the trees behind us.

He never does.

For the next two hours, we don’t even stop for a drink of water. A low-hanging mist settles in our path, and the air is so thin every inhale takes effort. The terrain is difficult, steep and icy beneath our feet, but we don’t dare search for the road.

Maelithryne appears slowly, giving us glimpses of stone walls and billowing smoke as we get closer. When my legs are ready to give out, we crest a steep hill. We stop as one, panting for breath and staring ahead.

We made it.

The outer walls are tall, built with stone and reinforced with dark timber, connecting to the cliffs like they’re built into the side of the mountain. Purple banners snap in the wind, and even from here, we can see the shadows of archers keeping watch. The main gate is massive—easily twenty feet tall and twice as wide. Two enormous lanterns flank the opening, burning with orange flames that feel like an invitation and warning all at once.

It’s sturdy and time-worn, like a place that refuses to fall out of pure, stubborn will.

We stagger out of the forest, weaving through old, decaying stumps where trees once stood. They’ve been cut back from the entrance, allowing the guards to see anyone approaching from far away.

There’s nowhere to hide.

Seemingly endless stone stairs rise to the gates. Aryn told me they forged the road as a protection—narrow enough to force an army into neat little rows with no shadows to cover them.

There’s movement above on the wall, and voices call out that are merely buzzing from here. I reach into my pocket and clutch the sigil ring so hard the metal bites into my palm, then drag myself up the stairs. Sweat pours down my spine, at odds with the frigid air of this place, and my lungs feel like they might give out at any moment.

The gates open, forming a sliver of light between the massive doors. Guards swarm out, marching to meet us on the path. Ronan and I lead the way shoulder-to-shoulder, hands visible and weapons sheathed. A dozen of them make their way down the stairs as we continue upward, mostly Dreven like Aryn, with deep red skin and tails on alert behind them.

We stop when they do, our groups standing only ten feet apart. The guard in front speaks in rolling Elyrian, and Ronan answers, gesturing at our group and the forest beyond. After a few minutes of back and forth, he turns to me.

“Show them the ring.”

The guards tense as I reach into my pocket, but I’m careful to move slowly as I present the ring. It swings back and forth like a pendulum, and the closest guard tilts his head, gesturing at it like he’s asking permission to look closer.

“Yes,” I insist, nodding. “Please.”

A few of the guards shoot each other strange glances, but the one in front steps closer and takes the chain from my hand. It’s my last piece of Aryn, and I fight my instinct to hold on to it. He doesn’t go far. He just stands there, holding the ring up to the light and twisting it in different directions.

Clear relief flashes on Ronan’s face as the guard asks him a few more questions. The others look skeptical, but when the one holding the chain says something abruptly over his shoulder, they snap to attention.

The group turns toward the gates, and I panic.

“Wait!” I lunge forward and wrap my fingers around the ring, tugging it back toward my body. “Please. Please.”

His brows flick together before Ronan rushes to say something. The guard’s emerald cat-like eyes don’t leave mine as he listens, and finally, he dips his chin. He releases the chain, and I hold it to my chest with a shaky breath.

“We need to follow them,” Ronan explains.

“Do they know anything about the Viskari?” I demand. “Has Aryn been here? What—”