Page 134 of On Brutal Thrones

“And if we stay here arguing, she’s doing it for nothing.”

That gets him. Talon swears and turns uphill.

“Nyx,” Fenric calls, backing away reluctantly. “You’d better follow.”

“I will.” The lie comes easily.

Thorian’s gaze holds mine for one long second. “Get back on the plant the second we’re clear.”

I nod, and then the three of them run.

I keep moving. Or try to.

I wave my arms, turn in an awkward circle, and force myself through the steps of an old Tharwynn festival dance Lyra and I used to perform around the fire. Back then, we’d laugh whenever one of us missed a step. Now every movement feels like dragging my body through mud.

The red light follows me eagerly. It flares beneath my boots when I step, brightens when I turn, then pulses again when I force my arms overhead. Each movement draws more of it toward me, and each flare steals a little more.

My ridiculous childhood song dissolves into breathless sounds because I can’t remember the next verse. My thighs tremble. Sweat trickles down my spine despite the cold wind, and the edges of my vision begin to blur.

Ahead, the men race across the slope at full speed. Thorian leads, sword already drawn, with Talon only a pace behind him. Fenric follows, a little slower than the other two, but still moving fast enough that the red glow beneath my feet intensifies as the mountain tries to pull their effort back toward itself.

Magic flashes from above. They dodge one blast, and Thorian barely avoids another.

“Faster!” I try to shout, though the word comes out slurred.

They reach the end of the red slope and the difference is immediate.

Thorian surges forward. Talon follows. Fenric stumbles once, catches himself, and keeps going. Then all three charge toward the rocky outcropping where the Vultures are waiting. Magnus takes one look at Thorian coming for him and apparently decides he doesn’t want to discover how much energy a demi-god has left after being magically drained.

“Go!” one of the warlocks shouts.

They scatter, and Thorian climbs after them for several strides, but Talon catches his arm and points back toward me.

That’s when I stop.

My knees hit the earth, and relief washes through me so intensely that I almost moan. I lower myself onto my side, then roll onto my back. The ground is warm beneath me, wonderfully warm after the cold air, and red light gathers around my body in soft pulses.

For the first time all day, I don’t have to move. I don’t have to climb or fight or force my aching body another step toward the Spire.

My eyes drift closed.

The earth drinks from me.

That thought should scare me, but instead, it feels strangely comforting. I imagine hundreds of tiny mouths pulling at my strength, taking little sips of me until there’s nothing left. The image makes me think absurdly of a mother pig surrounded by piglets, all of them contentedly feeding.

A weak laugh catches in my throat. Maybe I’m losing my mind, but I don’t really care. The Spire can wait. Lyra can wait. Everything can wait.

Somewhere far away, someone is screaming.

I ignore it.

Then the voice comes again. “NYX!”

My eyes crack open.

The sky swims above me, dark clouds twisting around flashes of white lightning. I turn my head with enormous effort and find three figures standing on the rocky outcropping above the red slope, looking down at me and waving their arms.

My men. The thought fills me with soft, hazy affection. They’re safe. That’s nice.