Page 116 of Blood Beneath the Snow

Chaos erupted and the arena became a stampede. Priests descended from their seats and clambered onto the sand, drawing scythes and rushing for me. The silencers were still in their positions, looking confused, and I was grateful. Their presence would significantly decrease the amount of damage the priests could do from a distance.

My traitorous eyes looked for the Hellbringer. He smiled smugly, sitting with one leg crossed over the other, leaning back as if the swarming crowd didn’t bother him. For the briefest moment I considered ignoring the priests, clawing my way over the edge of the stands, and lunging for him, forcing my blade through his stomach. The idea thrilled me.

But before I could move, Mira emerged into existence beside him. She raised an eyebrow at me before grabbing his wrist. In less than a heartbeat, the two of them were gone.

Good. A distraction was the last thing I needed.

Only half looking, I swung Aloisa up to crack against the blade of a scythe, then swiftly sliced the wooden handle in half. The priest holding it stumbled and I kicked him in the stomach, sending him falling backward. One of the others rushing at me tripped over him.

They may have attended the military academy, but many of these religious figures hadn’t used their weapons for battle in more than a decade. I had the clear advantage now. I whirled and parried, blinking blood from my eyes. Seriously, fuck Björn. He had to give me such an inconvenient injury before he died, making my vision blurry when it really mattered.

Adrenaline surged in my veins, the only thing keeping me upright through my exhaustion. The sounds of battle echoed from the stands, and I spared half a thought to hope Halvar was safe.

The next priest to lunge for me was not as lucky as the others before him. My training kicked in, muscle memory fresh from weeks in the abandoned prison, and the moment he faltered, I shoved my blade through his gut.

The sagging weight of him threatened to pull Aloisa from my hands, but I swiftly tugged my sword back, targeting the next priest with the blood-slick metal.

The rhythm of war was interrupted by scorching heat at my back. The priest in front of me retreated, and out of the corner of myeye I saw the others doing the same. The flames that followed their departure didn’t touch me, and I straightened my shoulders, exhaling sharply before I turned to face him.

My father.

“I won,” I called out. “Tell the priests to stop fighting and I’ll call off the Nilurae.”

He laughed, genuine mirth on his face. “You are not my successor. You’re an impostor, a feeble excuse for a daughter. At least after today, we will be rid of you for good.”

“This is only the beginning.” My voice rose with every word. “We will never be content to be abused by you and your regime. You’re already fighting one war; don’t succumb to another.”

“You think this will ever be a war? Look around you. The godforsaken are already falling at the hands of the priests.”

I didn’t move my gaze from him, knowing that the instant I did, he would strike. But I did listen more closely to the cacophony around me. Beneath the clashing of swords and grunts of exertion, there were screams. And without looking I had no way of knowing whether they were coming from the Nilurae or our enemies.

“You willdiefor your insolence,” Father spat. He raised a flaming hand high, aimed at my face. Dodging his death blow would be impossible.

At that moment, the world slowed, and I heard singing.

What is that?

The familiar tune wound around my father. My mother’s old lullaby. I’d heard this song when first blood was shed on the snow of the canyon pass, when Frode’s broken nose poured blood, in my unconscious dreams after the Hellbringer injured me. The humming was quiet and calm but excited. It moved with purpose, its pitch calling to my soul. And then I realized: the sound came from under Father’s skin. His flesh sang to me. The tune lifted and carried to the beat of his heart.Thud, thud, thud.

I tilted my head to study him. Above me, I saw his mouth wide-open, screaming, preparing to kill me, but he was worlds away. A line connected my mind to the life housed under the skin covering him. An invisible string of sorts. I knew no one else saw it.

Curiosity and awe overwhelmed logic. I knew I should be panicking, fighting back, but why would I when this beautiful singing wound through every vein and artery beneath my father’s skin?

Vaguely, I saw his hand move but I didn’t care. Instead, I raised my palm and closed it around the mental string before giving it a sharp, experimental tug.

Without warning, my father flew across the arena, slamming into the wall closest to me. His flames disappeared in the same heartbeat.

Time snapped back into place and I blinked. The fighting continued around me, and no one except for a few priests seemed to notice the strange events that were unfolding. But none of those white-robed figures moved, even to help their king.

I pulled on the string again, hand curling into a fist with the movement, and Father’s arm bent at an unnatural angle until it snapped. He screamed, the sound blurring with the others.

The singing grew louder, took over my ears until it told me what I needed to do to make him hurt. Force him to pay for all the faded burn scars strewn about my skin. I stretched my hands out in front of me and strode across the arena. With the dripping blood coating my face, I must have looked like something from the pits of hell.

I tugged the connection again and my father screamed. Whatever I pulled at, whatever listened to my commands, was breaking him—killing him.

And I liked it.

I watched him attempt to pull a flame from his fingers, but it sputtered and died.

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