Page 128 of The Prince and His Stolen Throne
Wilde’s arm tightened on me while I tried to reorient myself.
The old man looked at us tangled together and his lips spread in a nasty smile. “Good job, apprentice. Now hold him steady—” He raised his sword again, glee filling his eyes as he lined up the killing blow.
He really didn’t see me as his son anymore. Just an obstacle he needed to eliminate.
Wilde shoved me out of the way and lifted one hand to meet the blade.
What is he doing? He doesn’t have a weapon or shield! The blade will slice right through him!
Except it didn’t.
The shadow sword stopped midair.
The old man blinked at it in shock and tugged on the hilt. No matter how he pulled and yanked, it remained locked in place. He turned furious eyes onto his apprentice. “Even you would disobey me?”
Wilde’s delicate features hardened. “We aren’t yours to control.”
“We’ll see about that.” The old man abandoned his stuck sword and twisted his wrist, fingers splayed wide as he raised them toward the ceiling.
Roots erupted through the floor, aiming straight for Wilde. Before I could shout a warning, he raised his other hand. They stopped in midair, an inch from his palm.
All noise cut out again.
This time, I saw how everything froze. At some point, everyone else had descended upon the throne room. My fathers and Kit were stuck in the doorway, fighting off the minions who had come to defend their master. Kit had taken off their helmet and was in the middle of smashing it down on a lacertian’s head.
Angelica had started limping toward the other side of the room. Her rapier was still clutched in her fist and her golden curls hung limply aroundher shoulders. She ignored the fighting around her, her gaze locked on the throne.
A few feet from the throne, two imps attacked Maximus, pummeling him with their tiny fists. The imps’ wings were paused mid-flap and if I squinted, I could see the displaced air around them.
Delilah had wrapped cloth around her hands and was tugging on one of the roots. Her shoulders strained and her face pinched as she used all her strength.
The root in question was wrapped around Fitz’s ankle. It’d started to cut into his skin as it pulled him toward the throne. Blood soaked his pantleg but the flow of it had stopped with the rest of the world.
I fully intended to freak out about the fact that Wilde couldstop fucking timelater. Right now, I had to fix the mess in front of us before time started again.
Sweat dripped down Wilde’s face and into his pale hair. A muscle feathered in his jaw as he strained to hold on. His eyes flicked between me, my father, the royal champions, and the throne. Resignation filled his dark eyes, and he grunted a single word, “Go.”
I ran.
I could feel the air on my face, thicker than usual. It felt more like swimming than running.
When I reached Fitz, I sliced through the root with one of my swords. A thin line formed along the root, but that was the only sign of injury. It remained taught against Fitz’s ankle, ready to drag him backwards. I had to trust that I’d freed him and turned my attention to the throne.
The throne was a wild collection of sharp branches and twisting roots. It had looked odd and uncomfortable when I’d stood next to it earlier, but now it looked malevolent. A perfect fit for an evil mage.
If this wasn’t the anchor for the curse, I didn’t know what else could be. I raised my sword and plunged it into the throne’s trunk, where a person’s heart would be if they were sitting in it.
Time restarted with a sickening jolt. My vision blurred as the world tried to reconcile my new place within it. Air caught in my lungs, and I tried to remember how to exhale.
Screeching filled my ears, drowning out all other sounds. A desperate,dying rage.
Something sharp plunged into my stomach. The breath I’d been desperately trying to exhale escaped me in a pain gasped. I looked down to see a branch piercing me straight through the middle.
“Trey!” Several voices called my name, but the loudest—the closest—was Delilah. She leapt to her feet, hands outstretched to grab me.
The branch pulled me out of reach. My knees connected with the seat of the throne. Twigs cut into them, but the stinging pain was nothing to the all-consuming ache of my stomach. Blood trickled down the branch, coating the seat. I fumbled for something to grab onto and finally grasped the hilt of my sword. I tried to pull it out, hoping I could use it to cut myself free, but only managed to dig the blade in deeper.
Black sap squirted from the wound. The putrid stench filled my nose and mouth, mixing with the scent of my own blood. After a few seconds, the black sap began dripping from every inch of the throne. As they bled, the branches and roots shriveled, curling in on themselves and withdrawing back into the throne.
