Page 118 of Taken
Seeing them hurt makes something raw and protective unfurl inside me.
I want to run to them, gather them close, shield them with my body.
But the woman’s shadow looms, wand gleaming in her fist, knife dripping with seawater, blood, and malice.
My hands curl into fists, my fear sharpening into fury.
“They’re hurting,” I breathe, my voice shaking.
Fury spikes through the fear like lightning through a storm cloud, burning away my hesitation.
“Why? What did you do to them?”
The old woman’s lips stretch into a grin that’s all rot and madness.
“All magic requires sacrifice, but it’s not them I would worry about,” she croons.
Before I can move, she lifts the wand.
Something invisible slams into my chest, hard as a wave breaking against rock.
The breath is knocked clean out of me—I can’t even scream—as I’m hurled backward across the room.
I hit the floor hard, sliding until I crash against the cold stone beside the pups.
Pain explodes across my side. My vision swims.
The pups whimper and cry, pressing against me, their small bodies trembling.
I force my hand out, stroking one shaky paw, my heart pounding like a trapped bird.
The woman advances, wand raised high, knife gleaming.
All I can do is hold the pups close and pray—to the sea, to the Fates, to anyone listening—that somehow, some way, we survive this.
My chest squeezes, and inside my heart, I reach for that thread glowing brightly and I tug.
Kael,my soul calls out to him.Kael!
Epilogue 2: Kael
The council chamber hums with tension.
Alaric paces, wings rustling restlessly, while Dagan leans forward, broad hands pressed into the stone table as if he could shape the earth itself by force of will.
Thorne sits slouched but restless, sparks dancing across his knuckles with every sharp word.
The crown first.
Then Idris. Always Idris.
“He grows bolder,” Alaric says, his voice like a blade drawn across stone. “First the SoulTakers at the eastern tide, now whispers of enthralled villagers deeper inland.”
“The Prime crown cannot be empty forever,” Thorne mutters. “If it has not chosen one of us yet, perhaps it never will.”
Dagan shakes his head. “It will. The Fates are slow, not blind.”
I sit silent, listening, weighing, my trident resting against the table’s edge.
