I press his lids closed. “Go with the creator.”
Wiping my cheeks, I force myself to stand, to move on in search of others. Except I rise too quickly because suddenly the world is spiraling, and two seconds later I’m bending over to vomit.
When it’s finished, I wipe my face on my cloak and continue forward, using light cast by the cloud-ringed moon and what’s left of the quickly fading flames. But each home I come to is filled only with the dead. Men. Women. Children.
I’m halfway through the village and hacking and coughing and calling in more wind when a strange noise emerges above the rain and sizzling buildings. A loud whirring. I look up and flick away the smoke high enough to see another one of the Bron airships.
It’s heading for the High Court.
Anger. Fury. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t even think. I flick my hand and watch a lightning bolt strike the hull. One moment apologizing to those inside and the next cursing them for what they’ve done to this village. To Faelen.
Within seconds the airship explodes midair, as if a pocket of gas was ignited, and the entire thing is flying apart in an ear-piercing, fiery ball of red. Parts and debris disperse in every direction, and then, abruptly, it’s all coming down. Except instead of falling for the fields, half of it’s thrown right above the village, and right above me.
Run.
Enormous chunks of wreckage slice through the air, and I’m scrambling back the way I came just as one lands two feet in front of me. I jump and keep going. Another lands to the side, and then more, followed by splintered fragments that rain down like metal daggers.
I lunge beneath a barn’s overhanging roof, but not before a shard slices my elbow and another rips open my leg. I cry out and cover my head, as if that will save me from anything else crashing through the rickety, burnt wood. Nausea rises again and the smoky coughs are chugging up my lungs, shredding my throat. I pull in fresh air from the valley and wait until the sounds of falling debris lessen. When I look up, small fiery bits are all that’s left. They float to the ground, burning out one by one in the pelting rain.
Fiery bits of ash that used to be people—I try to squelch that thought, but it seeps in anyway. I killed them intentionally, in anger. Before they could kill others, I tell myself. But their lack of innocence doesn’t make it okay. Just like Eogan knew. Just like he trained me for.
With a cursed sob, I pick myself up and start dragging my leg in the direction of Haven.
The ground’s too slick and I slip once. Then again. Then I’m back up, coughing and stumbling forward, only to squint at what I think is a shadow walking toward me through the wreckage.
A shadow with emerald eyes.
Eogan’s gaze smolders, taking in the scene as he crunches across broken glass and smoking wood to where I’m standing. I stagger forward and look down at the dribbles of dark blood oozing from my elbow. They patter on the dirt like rain.
Eogan’s exclamation is not meant for female ears as I crumple to the ground, and the next moment he’s at my side. Even though I despise his lying, traitorous self, my aching heart says his face is still the most beautiful thing in my world as he’s poring over me, searching for injuries. He grabs my hand and inspects the blood, then pulls my chin up to examine my face.
“How bad are you hurt?” But before I can respond, his gaze falls to the torn leathers on my thigh. His expression churns.
Waiting for it . . . For him to yell. To scold. To do whatever.
Instead, he pulls his shirt off and rips it into lengthy shreds, grimacing when I cry out as he binds my leg and elbow.
When he’s finished, his gaze meets mine and sticks a moment.
“I killed them,” I whisper. “In the airship.”
“You did what you had to.”
“I should’ve found another way.” But even as I say it, I know there was no other way. This was different from the redheaded girl. The grim set of his mouth says he knows it too. This is how I will live with my conscience.
“How’d you know I was here?”
Another explosion of falling timbers, and Eogan grabs his sword and slips his arm around my waist. He pulls me up before muttering heatedly, “Because I know you. Really, what the kracken were you thinking, Nym?”
I shake my head and try to draw in more air, but suddenly I’m not focusing well. “I had to help the people.”
He starts walking with me. “Who, Nym? Look around. They’re all dead!”
They’re all dead.
In the fire. The smoke. The rain.
And I killed some of them.
I do look around.
And abruptly I am five years old with my storm raging overhead.
And all I see is my home in flames and my parents in the old man’s dying face as my blood soaks in and makes a spattered mess all over the binding on my arm.
I jerk away from him. They have to be here. I need them to be here.