Page 133 of On Brutal Thrones

I jump off the shrub.

The instant both boots slam into the red earth, heaviness rushes into my legs. I force myself to ignore it and start jogging in place, lifting my knees while waving my arms over my head.

Then I sing.

Loudly.

The first song that comes to mind is one Lyra and I made up when we were little, which feels especially unfair considering there’s a real chance these will be my final moments. The lyrics are terrible. There’s a verse about a prince losing his trousers in a blackberry bush that made us laugh until our stomachs hurt when we were girls.

I belt it out anyway.

“What the hell is she doing?” Fenric shouts.

“Nyx!” Thorian’s voice cuts through the wind. “Get off the ground!”

I ignore him and keep moving.

The red beneath my boots brightens. Thin streams of light race across the slope toward me, converging beneath my feet, and strength drains out of my arms so quickly they drop several inches before I wrench them back into the air.

It’s working. The magic is being drawn to me and away from the others.

“Talon!” I shout between lyrics. “Get up!”

Around me, the ground pulses brighter. My legs grow heavier, but uphill, Fenric straightens. Thorian lifts his head sharply, his posture changing as though an invisible weight has suddenly been pulled from his shoulders. Talon blinks several times and looks around, confusion clearing from his face.

“Nyx?”

Relief hits so hard I nearly stop moving.

Then Talon sees the red light gathering around me. “No.”

The Vultures fire again.

“Watch out!” Talon shouts.

The blast tears into the ground close enough that purple magic rolls over us in a choking cloud. I throw an arm over my face, coughing as the bitter taste coats my tongue. Fenric sneezes violently beside his shrub, then coughs.

“Gods,” he gasps. “I hate warlocks.”

“Move!” Thorian orders.

Talon starts toward me.

I throw up one hand. “Don’t!”

He stops, his expression furious.

“Go after them.” My words come out breathless. My tongue feels too large, and forming each word takes more concentration than it should. “I’ll follow.”

“No,” Talon says immediately.

Another pulse of red crawls around my boots, and my knees wobble.

“Talon, go! I can’t fight the warlocks, you can!”

Fenric looks just as unhappy, but Thorian understands first. “She’s drawing it away from us, so we can fight the warlocks.”

“I can see that,” Talon snaps.