Page 100 of The Coven of Ruin
“Keyed off by some mage,” she said softly.
“He’ll be fine.”
He had to be. She tucked the guilt she felt about the situation away in the same area of her heart that she had for Zyana. There had been so much loss. At least with Grae, she could hope he made it.
“Come here.” His voice was a rough whisper as he tentatively reached for her.
She inched toward him, and his fingers whispered across the fabric and torn skin around her wound.
“I’m not a healer. Brune is better suited for it. What can I do to help?” He inspected the area, his brow furrowed.
Trista swallowed and shook her head. His gaze flicked to hers, his lips parting as if to demand that she speak otherwise. But she was dying, and they both knew it. Bringing his ruined arm across his body, he broke off the excess shaft without warning. She whimpered, a soft cry passing her lips with the movement.
Settling back again, Ares cursed beneath his breath.
“I didn’t see Brune,” she said when the pain subsided again.
“He’s at Spellspire. We needed their forces to be split.”
“How’d you get here?”
Ares huffed out a breath. “By dragon. Xerxes was searching for the princess.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why didn’t he stay? He—”
“That wasn’t the deal we made, witch.”
Fury flickered and extinguished. Anger had no place here, surrounded by moss and delicate white flowers that glowed in the pale light. And on the precipice of death.
The language of the forest filled the silence. Trista was beyond exhausted, and she knew that when she closed her eyes, she wouldn’t wake up again. “You came for me,” she finally whispered.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Why did you force me into these woods with you? I recall you saying you hated me.” A hint of amusement was evident even in the weariness of his voice.
“And you said you didn’t care about my life,” she countered, wincing with the force of her words.
A smile curled his lips as a low hum rumbled his chest.
His cheek was burned. And so was most of the flesh on his hands, but she reached for one anyway.
“Ares—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted, shaking his head and pulling away. He reached across his body to press his fingers into his side where Thel’s blade had punctured. Jaw flexing, he moved further down the tree until he was lying down, his head cushioned on a bed of moss at its trunk.
She pulled her hand back quickly. Carefully, she moved to situate herself, leaning against the tree trunk, her legs curled beneath her. His sword sat in front of her, and she studied it for a long moment. The moon’s light brightened as if it wanted her to see.
There, wrapped around the black hilt, was a shock of crimson. Her ribbon. She brushed her fingers over it. The silk had worn, darkened, and torn in places. Knots laid along the fabric as if it had begun to fray, and he had tied it again.
How many times had he sat to reknot her ribbon around the hilt?
“How did you do that in the clearing?” His chest heaved with his words.
She tore her attention away from the crimson silk to look at him. “I don’t know. Your power just responded to mine. I noticed it at the ceremony. It’s like when I shared magic with Zy and Dem.” A weight settled on her chest when she spoke their names. “Our magicwantedto connect. But why don’t you have access to it?”
He groaned as he shifted, then stilled again. “I was never allowed to use it. It was considered a weakness for me to rely upon it. When I fought in mortal wars, I couldn’t have my power at all. I had to be a mortal, lest it break the laws of divine intervention. So, I trained how I would fight. I think over the centuries of it being taken from me and not relying on it, it just…” He held a palm up to demonstrate what he meant.
