Page 180 of Cursed Shadows 4

Each step burns up the back of my legs, all the way to my bottom that I’m certain is made from steel now.

I bite down against the stiff pain flaming inside of me and clammer, wavering and wincing, over the crumbled stone.

My leg catches on the jagged edge of a rock.

I tumble over the edge.

Before I can hit the rubbled ground, impale myself on jagged and torn rocks, a pair of hands snatch out at me.

I suck in a sharp breath, a wince—then suddenly feel light as a feather, a pixie in the wind, as the strong hands lift me up.

I blink through the thickening darkness.

A familiar face mirrors me. Eyes like spilled ink, blots of darkness painted onto such porcelain skin, and hair crafted from tendrils of shadows.

General Caspan.

Hands clutched under my arms, he has me held up at eye-level with him—then a faint smile tugs the corner of his mouth and he sets me down.

Not a happy smile. Not joyous or friendly.

I read it for what it is.

Not quite a gesture of respect, but rather one of surprise.

But this guy fucking terrifies me, so I utter a rushed breath, something I hope he takes for a‘thank you’, which of course I would never say, and hobble off.

Limping—not from wounds burrowed into my legs, but rather the worsening dizziness of this pulsing head-gash—I stagger myway through the throngs of gathered folk who have spilled out of the stands and now swarm the courtyard.

There should be chatter. Whispers and chants and murmurs, even screams.

There should be buzz, whether weaved from fear or victory, I do not know, I do not care.

This silence is too uneasy, and it’s churning my gut.

It grows thicker the deeper into the courtyard I push my way through. Distantly, moans and flattened murmurs of the wounded are heard, but only barely, mere faint whispers drowning under the thunderous current of the darkness.

Folk crammed into the courtyard like an army stuffed into a bottle. They stand around… in shock.

I read it on their slack faces, on twisted mouths, in glittering eyes, in clenched fists. If the spectators didn’t watch it all unfold on the tarry pool, then they would know from the Cursed Shadows in the skies above whooshing around and around, skittering then receding, like a dog circles before it finds that right spot to settle into: Dorcha has won.

Darkness is victorious.

I lost.

He won.

The whole of the human world, and maybe more, will pay for me breaking a dark fae’s heart. I wonder if they know that. These spectators, watching, horror slacking their faces. I wonder if they know that they are collateral in the world’s worst breakup.

Something is lodged in my throat. Guilt. It sits there, like a ball that is stuck, on the verge of choking me, and yet it doesn’t.

I swallow it back as best as I can and squeeze by the stiff, motionless fae.

My steps are quiet in the suffocation of the silence. But my gaze is alert as I throw it around the courtyard, looking from face to face.

I don’t quite know which face I want to see, if I’m searching for anyone in particular, but I know that the moment golden brown eyes, flooded with panic and tears, flicker back at me, as though doing a double take, a breath of relief escapes me.

Honey.

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