Page 88 of Dynasty of the Wicked

Her body felt numb, cold, and painful. She realized she had to get up and fight, but her body wouldn’t move. Her eyelids fluttered, nausea and fear clawing up her throat. She didn’t even know what had hit her. Was it his new, ghoulish, shadow magic? She felt weak from the attack, like it had leeched her magic. Was this similar to Feng Mian’s cursed magic? Her mind was becoming a jumbled, sluggish mess.

She needed to channel her hatred of the world into her body, into her magic; it was the only way she could protect herself, the only way she could fight off Wyer. But the more she tried to think of how unfair everything was, the more she was reminded of Feng Mian, his tender kisses, his gentle touch, and their beautiful moments together. It was hard to hate the world when she had him.

Wyer kicked her, hard, and she rolled onto her back with a sputtering, bloody cough. The sky was a gloomy, ashen, grayish blue. In seconds, Wyer’s cruel eyes came into view. Half of his face was covered in red blisters from the dragon’s fire, and he had lost his sword at some point.

He kicked her face, and her vision grew dark once more. He continued stomping, kicking, and shouting. Bursts of shadows followed his movements, strengthening him. She curled into a ball as his brutal kicks continued. She should have been dead. The attacks should have broken every bone in her body, but her magic seemed to be taking the brunt of it.

She didn’t understand anything. Why was her magic protecting her, and yet refusing to listen to her? Why couldn’t she go into a dark frenzy like she had last time? When she had killed dozens and dozens of soldiers and freed herself? Why wasn’t her magicworking?

“Zhi Ruo!” Feng Mian’s roar broke through her frantic thoughts. She peeled her eyes open—only to realize one of them was swollen shut—to find her beloved tackling Wyer to the ground, blackish shadows clashing with one another. They both fought each other violently, their magic flaring loudly with every strike.

She pushed herself up to her knees; her stomach lurched and she wanted to vomit. Blood and spit threaded from her mouth to the scarlet-tainted snow beneath her. She wiped her split lip with a trembling, numb hand. She could barely focus on Feng Mian and Wyer, who exchanged blows so fast she almost didn’t see them—or maybe that was because her world was spinning too fast for her to make sense of it all.

The dragon was still crumpled on the ground where he had fallen, but the slow twitching of his arms and legs told her that he was still alive, albeit injured. Her heart swelled for him, and then for the other Huo soldiers, more than half of whom struggled in battle.

She didn’t want to fight anymore. She wanted to lie back on the snow, close her eyes, and will everything away. She wanted to go back to the moments prior to this, when she was worried about other things, not about dying in battle against half-ghouls.

Feng Mian grunted as a green beam blasted him in the chest and sent him reeling back a few feet. Pain wracked over his face even as he threw up a shimmery barrier, which shoved Wyer away from him and put a distance between the two. It gave Feng Mian time to keel over and cough up thick globs of blood and spittle and vomit.

A shock rippled over her. She couldn’t allow her mind to wander. She had to assist Feng Mian in battle. She wasn’t a powerless princess anymore; she had tapped into her magic, had fought off dozens of Kadians, and had cursed energy within herself—she could fight off Wyer, too.

Especially if it meant saving Feng Mian. If it meant preserving a future for the both of them.

Those thoughts spurred her forward. Magic thrummed beneath the surface of her bruised skin, warming her down to her toes. She flexed her stiff fingers. Her knees wobbled against one another and her breathing was labored. Every breath made her aching ribs stab deeper into herself, and she wondered if they were cracked and spearing her flesh from within.

Her magic flared, dark and sinister, and she could feel Feng Mian’s cursed magic spreading over her chest, burrowing deep into her being. She didn’t have to look down to know that the curse was spreading over her. That those ugly, black veins were crawling over her wicked heart.

Dense, purplish-black waves burst from her hands and shot toward Wyer in writhing, dark ribbons across the snowy landscape. They met him in a split second, and he could barely turn toward them, his eyes wide in shock. They slammed into him, again and again, and Zhi Ruo made sure they cut into his flesh. She willed them to be colder than death itself, sharper than winter’s breath, and as merciless as sharp steel.

Wyer rose to his feet, his own magic blazing around him in swathes of shadows. Gashes formed in his black armor and he turned his hateful gaze to her.

“You think this will stop me?” he roared, raising his arms as more of his magic sprang around him. It fought her shadows, trying to dominate them. “I came back from the dead for you! Does that mean nothing to you? Do you think you can fight me with your mortal magic?”

Zhi Ruo could taste the iron in her mouth from when he had stomped on her face, and she wanted to spit on his face. “You are a pathetic human, Aemilius Wyer. Do you think being a half-ghoul changes anything? You were pathetic then, and now, and forevermore.”

The veins on his forehead pulsed and his sneer grew darker. Zhi Ruo’s magic slammed into him again like a tidal wave, drowning him completely. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Feng Mian stumble toward her, and she resisted the urge to sprint to him. She couldn’t afford to let Wyer live right now, not when she was close to finishing him.

Blood dripped from her nose, but she didn’t pay it any heed. She allowed wave after wave of dark, twisting magic to roll over Wyer, to consume him, to rip his muscles apart. He tried, violently, to fight off against her shadows with his own, but hers were only multiplying, growing more than he could handle.

Her stomach caved in and so did her chest, something tightening over her heart, but she ignored it. Her body trembled, every muscle screaming at her to stop, and every fiber of her being pulling tauter.

It wasn’t enough.

Zhi Ruo let out a guttural scream, forcing all of her energy into tearing Wyer apart. He crashed to the ground, her shadows raking over his body and spilling fresh blood over the stamped snow. He shrieked as her magic ravenously attacked him, tearing out hair and muscles and sinew.

“Princess!” Feng Mian grabbed her arm, wrenching her to the side. “That’s enough!”

“No!” She tore away from his grip, her gaze never straying from Wyer’s. She wouldn’t be satisfied until he was dead—trulydead.

“He’s dying! It’s enough?—”

“No!”

“You’re cursing yourself! I can’t save you if it spreads too much!”

She already knew the curse was spreading rapidly over her chest; she could feel it with every beat of her heart. But didn’t matter at this point. It wasn’t enough to kill her, even though her body was reaching its limit.

Feng Mian released a frustrated growl and sprinted into the thicket of her shadowy magic. She opened her mouth to shout at him to stop, but her shadows didn’t attack him, as if they knew that he was hers, and that she could never hurt him. He passed through the thick fog of darkness until he stopped in front of Wyer’s thrashing body. She couldn’t help but follow behind him.

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