Page 18 of Cursed Shadows 4

He does something I have never seen him do before. He lets a tear fall down his cheek. It’s slow over the arch of his sharp cheekbone, then veers towards the corner of his mouth. There, it lingers.

He doesn’t wipe it away. He wears it for me to see.

Then he lifts a buttery flower in his hand.

A daffodil.

A narcissus.

I shut my eyes on red and dry eyes, eyes that itch and burn, like a dehydrated throat.

All the tears I had in me have been shed already. I’m certain there is not so much as a single drop left to give, maybe not ever.

I am empty.

I feel that as I turn my back on my family.

Turn my back on the flower, my sister, my father’s tear. Their goodbye to me—because they know, like I do.

The chances of my survival…

I bow my head with early defeat.

Not a moment after, the blast of the battle horns pummels the courtyard. Scribes and iilra raise the horns towards the skies. The iilra who chant drop to their knees, whispering and whispering and whispering.

My teeth bare against it all.

My shoulders tuck.

A cringe as deep as my bones—against the assault of the blaring horns, andthe whispers, the whispers, the whispers.

A violent shudder rattles me.

I see the same tremor ripple through some parts of the crowd. I’m not the only one feeling it—a strange sensation, too delicate to describe, but not terribly unlike a claw of invisible matter reaching through bridges and wormholes and portals, spidery fingers too long and too bony, all to graze down my spine.

More trembles ripple through the crowd. Even the spectators hiss and snarl. Instinct of the unnatural steels many of us—but most contenders stand tall and firm.

A hush spreads through the courtyard.

Spectators sink into their seats.

Contenders, in a rustle of movement, turn to face the tar windows glossed over the stone ground, and I notice that the portal this time is much larger than the last.

I watch, motionless.

I am little more than a statue planted in the gardens of the High Court, moved here to the ruined walls of Comlar.

And I hate that it happens.

The horns are still blaring when the bass comes—the heavy bootsteps of warriors. A wave of motion.

All around me, bootsteps thud closer to the portal. More and more and more, until I can finally inhale the freshest breath I’ve had since leaving Hemlock House, and there are only five contenders within arm’s reach of me.

No one races into the portal, no one shouts with bloodlust or glee or fear, then charges. I watch as the contenders march as though headed to a funeral, their own.

I swallow, thick, before I make my move and slide down the rubble. My boots are soft on the stone floor, and my sight of the portal is stolen. Now, I stare at the backs of light warriors between me and the windows.

The urge to turn and run has my shoulders curved.

---