Page 82 of The Coven of Ruin
Another loud hit shook the large doors of the entryway.
The prince gestured toward the kneeling and bleeding coven members. “Except them.” Roan scanned the group and stopped on Nero. “And we only need one iron prince.”
Princess Rianne went to strike her brother down, but the three were gone just as quick, keyed away with a loud crack.
Trista was picked up roughly by a guard and thrown over his shoulder, his arm locking around her waist in a vice grip. Lifting her head, she could just see the two gods and Nero being surrounded. Nero was between Ares and Grae, their backs to him, protecting him. Grae swiped his pick to the other corner of his mouth, cracking his knuckles. They were unarmed against armor, swords, and mages wielding dark magic. There was no way they could make it out alive. The princess had been swallowed up by the guards, and Trista wasn’t able to tell if she still stood.
The Black Garrison mages had moved at some point, standing upon the dais, their focused spell on the two gods. The acrid composition of their magic saturated the air, hanging heavily, and though it seemed to make her own magic feel sluggish, she still had access to it.
The entryway groaned as something from the outside pushed against it until the already cracked wood gave way in an explosion of splinters and debris. Barreling into the dining hall, ax in hand, was Brune. Guards shouted commands as some turned to respond to the hulking god, but his large form thundered toward them. With punishing swipes of his ax, he knocked them over. His hits were so powerful that the ax blade cut through the mages’ armor as if it were parchment.
The guard carrying her pivoted, heading towards one of the servants’ exits. The only blessing was that he couldn’t key, which meant he had to take her on foot. She pushed herself off his back and looked for something she could use to free herself. Finding nothing, she twisted on his shoulder and clawed at the back of his exposed neck. Cursing, he only squeezed her tighter, but she was relentless.
Repositioning, she wiggled her fingers until she reached the softer flesh of his throat. She dug her nails in and clawed with all her strength, her magic surfacing with violent intent simultaneously.
He tossed her down, and she slid across the stone floor. Not wasting time to see if he was coming back for her, she threw herself to her feet and ran. Not out of the broken doors to safety, but to Ares.
The two gods had been able to acquire blades, but not without injury. Grae’s nose was a crimson mess, blood covering his lips and chin. Ares had a long cut on his cheek, half of his tunic was torn, and a gash ran along his abs. Bodies had piled up around them as they kept close to each other. Prince Nero, blade in hand, was trying his best to keep his footing while being repeatedly struck by a large, armored guard.
Ares’ gaze found her. “Get out of here, witch!” he shouted over the cacophony of battle. At the same time, another guard swung at him with a war cry. Dodging, he swiftly dispatched him. But it wasn’t until he realized that she wasn’t going to flee that he stepped out of their formation. He shouted something to Grae, who adjusted his position.
They came for him, battle cries rising as he beat them back with a kick to the chest or a controlled arc of his sword. Trista was constantly pushed and thrown off-balance to avoid being crushed as the crowd of armored bodies moved and reformed, dodging Brune’s brutal blows. With violent efficiency, Ares picked up another sword and battered his way toward her.
The need to reach him was singular in her mind. If she could just reach him, they could make it out. They could set things right. Find Zyana and Demurielle and leave.
She squeezed between two guards who grabbed for her, but she let her magic loose in a maelstrom, preferring death over capture. She was tired of being seized and bruised. Powerless and weak. If she could just make it to him...
She was so close to him now, just a few more steps. Brune had reached Grae and Prince Nero, who he picked up and slung over one broad shoulder. The prince swung his blade wildly even still. They could make it out. Ares tossed the second blade away from himself, reaching out with his hand for her as he beat back two guards. She could almost feel his calloused hand closing around hers.
A sharp pain exploded in the back of her head, her vision swimming from the blow. Ares shouted something, but she couldn’t hear it over the sound of rushing blood and an unrecognizable voice in her ear.
“You’re coming with me.”
With her arm still stretched out, she hoped his hand would find hers. But as her body was dragged not across stone but through the vacuum of space, it was only blackness that greeted her.
Chapter XXXV
Tristawaslostsomewherein a black ocean, the weight of it pressing into her. She tried to swim, find a source of light to move toward, and even use her magic, but it was all for naught. Swallowed whole, she would never be found again.
She hoped everyone else was able to escape. That they were safe. Zyana, Demurielle, Nero, Rianne.Even the gods of war? Even Ares?The question was formed from heartache. All of them.
She tried again to move the heaviness off herself, but it was immovable.
“You’re much too weak,”the weight declared. And it was right, so she ceased to struggle against it.
Was this death, then? A crushing abyss that reminded one of all their failures and shortcomings.You couldn’t save anyone, none of your friends, or even yourself.You weren’t wanted from the very beginning.Weak. Pathetic. It is no wonder you are stuck here. Useless. Traitorous.
“Why,” she tried to ask the deep. Tried to scream. Tried tobreathe.
Conspiring with the enemy—the Witchbane.
“Don’t trust the god,”Lady Orna’s dreamy tone echoed through her.
You chose your side and condemned everyone you loved because of it.
Some shadow of panic gripped her, even here in this grave.They’re not dead, she repeated to herself.
Weak.
