It had been his fault.
Trystan’s magic wouldn’t wait any longer. It took on a life of its own and came out of his fingertips like water slipping through the cracks of a dam. Nobody else could see it, but he could, the gray mist surrounding the Valiant Guards that were still happily slaughtering his men and women, his guards, his people.
The first Valiant Guard was slow to realize what was happening to him, but when the gray mist circled him, Trystan saw exactly how to hurt him, his power illuminating the best places to strike in a vibrance of color amid the gray.
The glowing red around the knight’s abdomen was The Villain’s perfect opening; it was the guard’s weak point. His magic swept in, circling the knight, and the gray mist sharpened and angled right for that spot. The knight let out a curdling scream, dropping to his knees before collapsing to the ground.
The act of killing gave The Villain strength, fed his power, made him strong. Strong enough to push the rest of the gray mist around the remaining knights, finding their weakest point and slaughtering them all. The Villain took a sick satisfaction from watching the pile of silver-clad bodies pile high until there wasn’t a single knight left standing.
The head of his guard, Keeley, stood to the side, assessing a comrade who was clutching their side in pain.
Trystan walked forward to assess the damage. “Did they take anything?” he asked, keeping his face blank as he counted the dead. Four.
Three men and one woman dead, because of him.
He gritted his jaw, ignoring the burning guilt rushing through him. It was a useless emotion. There was nothing productive about feeling the pounding pressure of people dying for him, knowing he wasn’t worth their sacrifice.
“No,” Keeley replied absently. “But we’ll have to move everything, sir. One of the knights took off to relay a message before you arrived.”
He nodded, taking the information in slowly. The rest of his guards looked to him, but there was no time to mourn. They needed his instruction; they needed The Villain.
“Have everything moved to one of our more secure locations,” he called to them. “Bring the dead back to the manor, and we’ll—” His humanity made him stop. “We’ll have them buried.”
The guards nodded, looking at him with a reverence he didn’t want. Another guard spoke over the silence. “What are you going to do about this, sir?”
Trystan’s jaw ticked as his gaze swept over the group still standing, the guards who lay dead, and the Valiant Guards beside them. “What needs to be done,” he said cryptically, giving them their final orders and then heading back to his mount.
As he swung his leg over his steed and guided him back to the manor, the question echoed in his head once more.
What are you going to do about this?
He didn’t consider the question, for he already knew the answer. As he rode south, speeding slightly when he felt a strange tingling sensation on the back of his neck, he made a vow.
There will be vengeance for anyone who has suffered in my name.
…
When he finally arrived back at the manor and strode past the moving wall into his office space, he knew something was wrong, could feel it, something— He didn’t make it two feet before Rebecka appeared before him, an unusual dishevelment to her normally composed appearance.
“Sir!” she gasped.
An eerie feeling prickled down his arm.
“Bomb. There was a—bomb in your office— Evie—”
Her name brought him back into focus as he gripped the small woman by the shoulders. “Where is she?” He knew his voice was strangled and harsh, but this wasn’t the time to gentle it.
“The parapet. She took it outside!”
He dropped his arms and began to run before the last words left her lips. He flew through the doors and didn’t stop. His black cape billowed around him as he raced up the stairs and to the parapet, where he caught sight of her small form in the distance, looking forlorn and resigned.
Bomb—where was the bomb? He followed Sage’s gaze to the top of the tower at the end of the parapet. His eyes found the small gold device, so close, too close.
“Run!” He pushed his legs harder, letting the panic be fuel to bring him to her.
Her wide eyes flew to him, blinking as if she didn’t believe he was real. “My foot is stuck!” she called back, sounding as frantic as he felt.
He called back in disbelief, “Well, pull it out!” His words released on a growl, and he watched with bated breath as she continued to tug at her leg, not gaining an inch.
Sweat beaded along his forehead, and his loose black shirt was beginning to stick to different parts of his body as the sound of his boots echoed off the stone and cement beneath his feet. It wasn’t fear—he was just running very fast.
He was nearly to her when he felt the vibration in the air. His eyes flickered to the gold device as he drew closer. The timepiece hanging from the explosive began to shake, and he felt the tower beside them rumbling. Right as he reached her, grabbing her by the waist, throwing her to the ground and pressing his body on top of hers, he enveloped them in as much magic as he could gather and yet knew it likely wouldn’t be enough.
And then the world went red.
Chapter 10
Evie
Evie was bleeding.
She could feel the warm liquid dripping down her scalp as she slowly blinked her eyes open. She couldn’t see much. Her vision was clouded by black fabric and a muscled chest. The smell of smoke flooded her senses, but also something else. Something warm and comforting.
Her head was being cradled, and when her vision finally cleared, black eyes were peering into hers. But she was too disoriented to read the emotion behind them.
“Sage?” Her name was spoken in the smooth accent of The Villain’s voice, raising the hairs on her arms.
“Hello, sir,” she murmured weakly, trying to make sense of her rapidly moving thoughts.
The pinch in his brow smoothed, and he exhaled a ragged breath. One of the hands cradling her head came up to her cheek, and he cursed when he saw the blood. “Where else are you hurt?” he asked, his voice brusque, furious even.
She tried to assess where exactly the painful points were coming from, but if she were being honest, she didn’t feel much but contentment when he was holding her like this. He must have taken her silence as a sign of her distress, though, because he moved them both to a sitting position.
He tore a bit of his cloak, bringing it to her head to stanch the bleeding, and looked back up toward the destroyed end of the walkway. The small tower adjacent was crumbled into nothing.
“Please speak. It’s unsettling when you’re quiet.” His voice was steady, but something in him seemed shaken.
“I’m glad I didn’t explode.”
The look in his eyes warmed, and his lips pulled high, the elusive dimple making an appearance. “The feeling is mutual.”
She groaned, remembered she’d almost gotten him killed when he dove for her.
“Why didn’t you run?” There was nothing accusing in his voice, just curiosity.
She looked to her ankle. Her body seemed to remember it should be in a great deal of pain, and she gasped as the throbbing set in.
The Villain leaned back, placing her hand where his was to hold the piece of cloth to her head wound. He gently lifted her foot. “May I?”
Evie felt a little breathless but nodded.
He lifted her yellow skirt, dirtied from the smoke, until it was sitting just above her ankle. Carefully taking her worn heeled boot in his hand, he slowly pulled it off. Evie let out a hiss of pain, and he froze.
“I’m sorry.” He grimaced, pulling the shoe all the way off along with her wool sock to reveal the angry, harsh swelling that lay beneath. His warm, calloused hands gripped her calf above her injury, and Evie worried if he let go, she’d float away.