Page 167 of Fires of the Forsaken
“She seemed to be.”
“It—but—how is that possible? Without Ramiel—”
“Who’s to say he’s not accompanying Seruf? Even if he’s not been seen yet,” the boy said. “And with Seruf’s hybrid on the rampage…”
I could barely hear the next words over my booming heart.
“We need to find that hybrid,” the woman snapped. “Before she kills us.”
But they didn’t find me. Not that day.
My stomach soured as the riders continued their trek, and the nausea persisted even after they’d disappeared.
Darfield.It wasn’t a coincidence Seruf had attacked my old home.
I wondered what had happened to the blue-eyed boy. Quinn. Had he perished in battle?
Tears filled my eyes. I hope he had—a quick, painless death. For that was preferable to being turned into a Wraith, the fate that surely awaited any living soldier defeated by Seruf’s army.
* * *
More days passed.The cooling autumn breeze carried whispers of pain. And fear. The animals must have sensed it too. Birds stayed closer to their nests, no longer singing their morning tunes. Rodents scurried to safety, only emerging to gather food. Squirrels huddled in the trees. Deer traveled in tightly knit groups. Even the predators seemed reluctant to emerge from their dens and hunt.
On some afternoons, the sound of my bare feet shuffling through the leaves seemed deafeningly loud in the quiet woods.
A chill seeped into my bones. A deep, bitter cold. Accompanied by a pain I knew well.
Fever. Hardly a surprise, given the recent torment my body had endured.
Walking became a tremendous struggle. Each step wasmonumentous—momentous, as though I were climbing a mountain, rather than trekking across mostly flat terrain. My vision worsened; even objects directly in front of me seemed unfocused. Breathing brought a sharp, stabbing pain to my lungs.
Soon, that pain turned liquidy (is this a word? Liquidy—watery?), as though someone had filled my chest with molten metal.
I began coughing.
The fits hit suddenly, with little warning, and often left me doubled over, struggling to inhale.
Still, I moved forward, choking on great mouthfuls of blood and mucus. Theflem(goodness, is this a word? I believe it is).Phlem—Phlegmfilled my throat and airways, making it impossible for me to take a breath. And when air wormed into my lungs, it rattled the hot liquid inside my chest and created another fit.
My ailing body could go no further.
And that afternoon, as I lay shivering, despite the relative warmth of the day, my arduous journey ended.
Rough fingers clasped my shoulders. Metal coiled around my wrist. Hands scraped at my raw skin as I was flung into a saddle.
“If you burn my horse,” a woman warmed me as she settled herself into the saddle behind me, “orme,I will slit your throat. Do you understand?”
I nodded as I stared at the horse’s gray mane. “I don’t want to hurt people.”
The woman made a sound of disbelief.
“Truly. I-I—have you ever lost control of your stallion?” I asked. The horse’s muscles quivered beneath me. He fidgeted and ground his teeth against his bit. All signs of a high-spirited animal. And given his impressive height and strong legs, I imagined he was a powerful runner.
“Javen is well trained,” the woman said.
“Perhaps now,” I said. “He wasn’t always. I’m certain he’s taken you—perhaps merely at a faster pace than you expected.”
“Of course.” The woman tightened the reins when the horse began bobbing his head in earnest.
