Page 2 of Cursed Shadows 5

I fought for my life, I fought to the bone for this.

I stabbed the male I loved, I clawed my way through bogs of churning blood and…

…andthisis how I die?

Crushed under the weight of spectators while Comlar falls. Battered and bruised, blood smearing my face, dried and caked onto my flesh, my hands are raw and frozen, my legs stretched and aching deep into the bone—and still…

Still, I have some fight left in me.

How I have this, this little flame of defiance; how I can break, then rebirth myself as formidable—I can’t possibly know.

Maybe my human mother was a fighter.

I even surprise myself.

I am not full fae. I am not fullblood.

I am halfling.

The human in me is the roll back of my eyes as I inch closer to passing out; it’s the slowing of my rocking boot, the surrender of my lame fight; it’s the weakness in my muscles, the softness of my bones, the flimsiness of my flesh.

The full fae in this crushing debris pile have better chances than I do. Their bodies can withstand the weight better, longer, but not forever.

There is not even enough air in my lungs to cry out for help. Not that I am sure many would come to my aid now.

It’s not the Sacrament anymore. The dark fae have no loyalties to me, no motivation to save me—and the light fae will watch me die just for the sheer audacity that I had to stay alive and not die for their cause.

I am on my own.

And I will die on my own, now that the strength is fading from me, the rock of my boot against a head, back and forth, is slowing, slowing, slowing…

I suffer through the agonising moments, the time passing me. I am limp, waiting to learn which tear will be the last to fall from my eyes before the gods finally take me.

It’s longer than I would like.

A quick death is mercy I am not afforded.

My heart thumps in my head, in my throat, in my belly. Ifeelit, the pulsations, the dizziness.

I watch the smoke disturb with running fae, the cascade of bootsteps as thunderous as the crashing collapse of Comlar.

I watch as the smoke turns milky.

Thick, dark grey, bulbous clouds are warping before my eyes, turningdewy.

For a beat, I think my tears are glossing my vision.

But it isn’t the tears.

I blink, a tired flutter of wet lashes, and a glacier breeze shudders closer.

The faintest frown tugs on my brow, it tugs and tugs, trying to form without the energy behind it, then it fades, and my face is blank again, slack.

Death is near…

My breath wheezes out of me, lame and tired, inching closer to its end.

And he has come to watch it…

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