Page 191 of The Jasad Crown

Ugh, I couldn’t think about this. I had tired of convincing everyone that I had no particular appetite for death—that I had, in fact, dedicated a great deal of effort toward avoiding the fate of my family. “I have no choice! If we miss Nuzret Kamel, the mist will not fall for another ten years. I cannot rely on the slim possibility of the Nizahl Heir wresting away his father’s throne.”

I left my other reason unspoken.

My magic would not give me another ten years. One way or another, it would overpower me. At least when I raised the fortress, the madness would have been worth it.

Marek allowed me to disentangle from him, his lips pressed together. “Promise us that if the Nizahl Heir arrives tomorrow, you will not raise the fortress.”

For once, my magic and I were in agreement. Neither of us wanted to think about the Nizahl Heir. He had brought my heart to carnage, and there was little left capable of holding faith a second time.

“I promise,” I said. “Get some rest.”

The sun rose over Sirauk Bridge on the last day of my life, bringing the cries of the resumed battle with it. I watched with dry eyes as the Nizahl recruits streamed into Janub Aya, colliding into the wave of Jasadis whose magic had not been drained by yesterday’s fight. The others took positions in the back, prepared to cut down anyone who made it through the first frontier.

“Go toward the sea,” I ordered Marek and Sefa, refusing to waver at their stricken expressions. “You will see them coming if they try to cross the sand hills. Hide until the fortress is up.”

“Essiya—”

I strode away, heading toward the spot they had buried the scepter. I couldn’t handle another plea. My magic already wanted me to leave the bridge and run—to vanish before the mist fell. If they convinced the rest of me, I might very well abandon the Jasadis here to die. Abandon the thousands still on the trade routes.

I dug out the scepter. The raven’s wings curled high around the orb, somehow even more vicious without Rawain’s hand around it.

The mist clung to the bridge stubbornly, refusing to lapse, and I grappled with the sudden thought that perhaps it never would. The records on Nuzret Kamel were inconsistent and fragmented. What if it was nothing more than a tale stirred in the bored minds of villagers in Janub Aya, a story told to entertain one generation after another reared alongside the mist?

I traced the raven’s frozen wings. This was a piece of Arin. A piece Rawain had stolen, corrupted possibly beyond repair.

Damn it. Damn him.

I checked that none of the fighting had penetrated the first wave of Jasadis before I closed my eyes. I had made a promise to Marek and Sefa, after all.

The kitmers I had sent to spy on the Nizahl soldiers sailed over Jasad. There were a dozen routes he could have taken to get to Janub Aya from the Citadel, but I didn’t have the time to check each of them. The kitmer traveled over the wreckage of Usr Jasad, past the grim profile of Bakir Tower. A silver-haired rider was nowhere to be seen.

A familiar scream snapped me out of the kitmer’s head.

A slew of soldiers barreled over the sandy slopes leading from Suhna Sea, penning in the Jasadis from behind. Magic tinged the air as the Jasadis poured every last ounce to hold the new onslaught back.

But none of that registered, not at first.

The scream that had drawn me from the kitmer was Sefa’s.

One of the recruits had spotted Sefa behind the wagon, her sword held in her grip like a dead fish, and thrown his spear.

If I hadn’t been on the other side of the clearing, maybe I could have sprinted to her in time. If I had seen it a fraction of a second sooner, I might have been able to stop it. I could have frozen the spear as I had once frozen a dagger aimed at Sefa; I could have diverted its path or even slowed it.

But I did not see it a fraction of a second sooner. I saw it as Marek slammed into Sefa, throwing her out of the spear’s path. I saw it as the point of the spear cleaved into Marek’s chest, the force hurling him to the ground.

I froze. The scrawny soldier who had thrown the spear also froze. He blinked rapidly, his face transforming into a mask of horror. “Marek?” He blanched and whirled around. “Zane! I need help!” The soldier took off toward the others.

As though it mattered.

As though it wasn’t too late.

Because I was a coward, I wanted Sefa to stay on the ground a little longer. I wanted her to spend more time dusting the pebbles embedded in her cheeks and fighting her dizziness. I wanted her to enjoy her last minute of peace. I wanted so much more for her than what was coming. I ran toward them, but I knew. I already knew.

Sefa pushed to her elbows, rolling onto her knees with a pained whimper.

When she screamed, I clapped my hand over my mouth. It was the kind of scream scraped from the very bottom of a soul, impossible to hear without experiencing a visceral urge to turn away. It turned your skin cold and clammy, forced your heart into your throat and your stomach to your feet. It was the kind of scream that time would never scrub from my memory.

Marek’s spine contracted weakly, spasming with the muscles in his torso. Blood drenched his entire front, darkest around the place beneath his ribs where the spear protruded.

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