Page 28 of Of Kings and Thieves

Killian’s mask glimmered red in the Darkrift’s light. “Another trick,” he murmured.

I choked back tears, fury replacing shock.

“We must be close, if the Darkrift is showing you your sister.” Killian traced a sigil in the air, and a tear opened revealing a sliver of the mortal realm.

I staggered through, collapsing to my knees on untainted soil. My chest heaved as I struggled to compose myself after facing such horrors.

“Rest,” Killian said gently. He crouched before me, eyes betraying sympathy though his face remained stoic. The mask was gone again. “You did well. Most souls stay lost in the Darkrift forever.”

A harsh, mirthless laugh escaped my throat. “Lucky me.”

Killian gave me a wry smile. “It was more than luck. I’d hate to tell Col I lost his woman in the Darkrift for eternity.”

A shudder racked my body at the thought. “Would I have been trapped? Or died?”

“No one really knows,” he said grimly. “But you’d have gone mad long before death took you. That’s the theory, at least. None return to tell the tale.”

His ominous words hung in the air.

“Did you see what came after me?”

He looked away. “Not at first. I only saw the wraith, since it was real—a soul-feeding wraith of the Darkrift.”

“Then what did you see?” I was grateful Killian hadn’t seen the Deviants or Flint.

The mage looked back at me, his dark eyes revealing nothing. “My nightmares.”

He wouldn’t elaborate, and I didn’t press him. After a few moments, the need to save my family burned hotter than ever. Surprisingly, I was unharmed, though I now had more fuel to feed my nightmares.

Killian surveyed the landscape. “Do you recognize where we are?”

The river was murky and foul, a twisted imitation of the one I knew. It was almost as if we were still trapped in the Darkrift. But there were no nightmares here, and the river’s shape was familiar.

“Yes,” I rasped. “It flows by my village. We’re close.”

Killian nodded. “Lead the way.”

The air was cloying, foul—not from the bog but something worse. With each step, dread coiled tighter in my chest. We crested a rise overlooking my village, and the sight that met my eyes shattered my heart.

The village was demolished, hovels blasted to rubble or burnt wrecks. Fissures tore the ground, now filled with fetid water. The stench of charred flesh and dark magic fouled the air.

Bodies.

Everywhere, the lifeless corpses of villagers were strewn about like broken dolls. The ground reeled under me, and Killian was there, his strong arms catching me as a sob tore from my throat.

“What happened?” My trembling voice was barely audible.

“Magic.” Killian’s tone was flat, but rage simmered in his gaze.

“Deviants,” I choked out.

Killian nodded, and fear clutched my heart as I struggled to breathe. My family’s home was on the other side. I broke into a run, scouring the ruins for life as I raced past. But no life stirred here.

Desperation drove me onward—over rubble, fetid streams, and yawning crevices. Killian followed, resignation etched on his face as he took in the demolished village.

I clung to the thin hope of survivors. If some lived, perhaps my father and sister had escaped this hell.

“Please,” I begged the gods. “Let them live.”

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