Page 3 of This Vicious Dream

I’m off-balance, and I lash out desperately with my power. The warmth spreads, defying the rain, but it’s sluggish, like trying to ignite soaked tinder. I grind my teeth, pulling harder, and flames coil and dance toward my attacker. He curses. And then he lashes out with power of his own.

The invisible blow hits me in the side of the head.

I’m not sure what kind of power this is, but it’s effective. My legs fold beneath me, my knees slamming into the deck.

Grinding my teeth, I wrap my flames around me until I can stand once more.

Another hit, this time to the other side of my head.

I can’t fight what I can’t see.

Rage burns through me, and that’s all my power needs, despite the river of water soaking us. I blink several times, aiming at the soldier.

His screams are music to my ears.

My head throbs like an open wound as another solider lunges at me with a vicious snarl.

My arm aches under the weight of my sword, but I swing again and again, the rain blurring my vision. I use my power when I can, but it’s almost useless in the downpour.

When the ship tilts once more, the weight of bodies—living and dead—sliding to the right, I risk a single glance around me in an attempt to count who’s left. A flash of lightning illuminates the carnage for the barest moment.

We’re…losing.

No. After this many months staying one step ahead of Kyldare and his men…it’s not possible.

But it is.

I feel the truth like a weight in my gut.

Kyldare chose the perfect time to attack. In two days, we were due to reach land, where we would restock weapons. Where the crew would rest, and enjoy fresh food and catch up on sleep.

A scream pierces the air. To my left, Carix goes down, blood pooling beneath him. My breath stutters.

This isn’t just a battle. It’s the slow, inevitable slaughter of the people who took me in. The people who gently teased me when I woke screaming after the war. The people who insisted on training with me each morning so I wouldn’t get rusty.

Gods, I wish Prisca was here. Her power would make all the difference.

“Madinia Farrow,” a voice cuts through the cacophony and I whirl.

Kyldare stands behind me, looking amused and self-assured. For a moment, the sound of the battle retreats, as if we’re in our own cocoon.

“You can make this all stop.”

Daharak’s voice cuts through the sound of battle. “Don’t you dare!”

Cold blue eyes glance over my shoulder. Kyldare’s lips curve, and a heavy ball of dread takes up residence in my gut.

The sudden screams cut deep into my ears. They’re young, terrified. The cook’s daughter Carosa. A child of only eight winters. One of Kyldare’s men has his beefy arm wrapped around her waist, his knife at her throat.

“You sick bastard.”

A muscle jumps in Kyldare’s jaw. But he waves his hand, and his solider drags Carosa toward us. In the distance, I hear her mother’s shrieks for mercy.

They were supposed to be safe below deck.

“I’ll make this easy for you,” Kyldare says. “Your life for hers.”

I drag my gaze from his face, meeting wide gray eyes. Carosa’s lower lip trembles, and she firms it in an attempt to be brave.

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