Page 88 of War Hour

Everything I had done. Everything I came here to do—all meant nothing. And while I was here, playing dress up and dancing with Heirs, Doireann has been dead.

None of the guards manning the entrance dare stop me when I flee the capital, but then again, do I really serve any use to them now?

More so, is there anything left here for me?

I‘m not so naïve as to think the games they played here in the capital were black and white. Everyone was looking out for their own interests, playing along with the others when it benefited themselves. But when is the shade of morally gray too murky for me to wade through?

Torryn had obviously had more to gain from helping than I assumed. Here, I thought he was interested in rooting out the corruption within the courts, and in reality, he’d been only clearing out a space for him to dig in even deeper.

He hadn’t cared what I’d risked in this—who I’d risked. Regardless of what happened in the judgment hearing, Falland is still in as much danger as they were before I’d left, if not more.And part of me blames Torryn right along with Drytas.

Here, I’d left in some misguided belief I could make things better, and now, I could never go back under fear of execution. My only friend, I’ve left behind. And now he’s left to the whim of Lord Drytas, to be used as a pawn in a war no one saw coming.

The sob I’ve been suffocating myself holding back bursts from my throat, echoing into the empty air around me.

I am hopelessly, and entirely, alone. If I’m forced to return to Falland, I will not survive long enough to beg for my life. Drytasplayed his part so well. Feigning the merciful leader who would allow for banishment to be sufficient punishment for treason, all while using it to hide his true plan.

I didn’t know to look for those who would play me the fool.

I trudge away from the capital until I have nothing left to cry. And when the last of my tears have dried on my cheeks and my breathing has evened from my hiccuping sobs, I sit, letting my hair fall into my face.

Sitting in the grassy fieldwhere I’d woken up only a couple weeks ago, I breathe in the smell of dead leaves and dirt. I like the aroma more than the odorless scent of the capital.

Palming Doireann’s necklace, I flip it over, reading the words that surround its edge.

No bravery without fear. No strength without struggle.

Lying back, I trace the wall of trees separating me from the rest of the continent.My eyelids droop just as the last tear falls, trickling into my ear. The only thing on my mind when I drift off—what do I do now?

I stareat the sword levitating in the air above my head for a couple of heartbeats before I realize I’m no longer dreaming.

Mind no longer muddled in the space between sleep and reality, a new terror races through me at the threat looming above.

My sleep-groggy eyes are now wide awake, watching with fearful anticipation for the blade to move even a hair’s width closer to where the pulse beats in my neck. The silver blade shines as it catches the light of the dying sun and the early arrival of the moon. Trembling in midair like a weapon wielded in the hand of an unresolved attacker.

My fingers twitch at my sides, ready to throw up a shield between my skin and the tip of the weapon.

Listening earnestly, there’s no way to tell how many attackers stand nearby, poised to kill. Or maybe one is all it would take? One assassin who is levitating a sword above me, ready to end it all. It isn’t hard to recognize this power as I’ve seen it my whole life as one of the gifts of the Court of Valor’s Trial.

As much as I’m certain Lord Drytas would salivate at the opportunity to be the one to execute me, I know he wouldn’t jeopardize the rest of his plan to do it.

I can’t stay like this. It will only be a short time before the attacker realizes I am awake and is pushed to act. Freezing up is only prolonging the inevitable fight.

The second I raise my hands, spreading a disc of shield in between me and the sword, the blade is moving toward me, attacking the shield with renewed vengeance. While before it had sat hesitantly, it now flourishes in its siege against me.

Rolling out of its direct path, I stumble, pivoting to scan the horizon for my attacker. Without yielding in my defensive shield, I search for the assassin.

A figure stands in the distance, merely a dark outline in the sunset’s glow. From the height and muscular physique, I assume a man but can’t guarantee it.

I walk forward. Steps hasten into a jog before surging to a full out sprint. Barreling toward the man who tried to kill me. They had seen my power anyway, so there is no point in cowering now.

I halve the distance between us, protecting myself with my shield. It’s still impossible to make out the features or the identity of the man.

And then my shield drops.

I stumble, gasping as the sword nearly lands a hit, grazing a strand of my hair where a few pieces float to the ground.

When I try to pull the shield out again, it’s as if a piece of myself has been locked away. I can feel it thrumming inside me, waiting to be released, but it is out of my reach.

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