He still needs to breathe.
I pour all my strength into keeping the bind taut, the muscles in my arms and chest ripped with a tearing burn from the immense effort. Hock claws at his throat, failing to get his fingers beneath the leather, instead jerking his entire body forward.
Using his heft to his advantage.
Anticipating the maneuver, I latch my legs around his waist, becoming a willing passenger to the shift. We collide with the ground, our left shoulders boring into the hot sand.
He lurches, spine arching, trying to shuck me off his body. I tighten my legs and fists, moving with his frantic motions, clinging to him like a life-sucking parasite.
The strips of leather cut into my palms, my lips pull back from my teeth, my brain pumping so full of blood that my head goes light and airy. The world rocks around us, like we’re on a raft in a lake of undulating sand, and I just know that this is my only shot.
That if I don’t get him now, I’m fucked.
“Die, you corrupt fuck!” I growl, pouring the last of my strength into another wrench of my arms, further tightening the bind.
He reaches back, swatting around my head, clawing at my braid. He yanks it, but I can tell by the lack of force that he’s fading.
Warm anticipation bubbles in my chest.
My scalp burns from his desperate tugs that grow weaker …
Weaker …
All the tension loosens from his body, and his head flops to the side with the drop of his arm. Relief flurries through me like a snowstorm, pouring up my throat as a whimpered exhale.
I did it.
He’s out.
Now to cut off his head.
Battling for breath, I look through the haze of heat waves, straight into the sun’s harsh glare, locating my weapon that looks both close and incredibly far away.
I release the bind, shoving at Hock’s big, limp body with my wounded hands, trying to wiggle my leg out from where it’s crushed beneath him. Finally inching free, I clamber to a wobbly stand—the entire world tipping, swaying. The ax as one, then splitting …
Splitting again.
I focus on one and charge forward, folding over to swipe it up, scooping only grains of sand, the illusion disintegrating like it’s made of fog. Groaning, I tumble forward, catching myself in an unsteady crouch, the bite on my breast thumping with a deep, destructive ache that spurs my hunger to hack through his throat. To fist his hair, raise my gory trophy, then walk out of here and never look back.
Gaze whipping around, I seek the weapon.
Where is it—
Where is it—
Where is it—
My stare latches onto its honed head glinting in the sun, cushioned in the sand just to my right. Another flurry of relief ices my insides.
I stretch out, reaching.
A shadow burdens my peripheral—the only warning I get before something hard cracks against the side of my head.
Pain explodes in my temple as my body soars too fast.
Too slow.
Lights flash across my waning vision, and I collide with the sand so hard my teeth impale my tongue, something warm spilling down the side of my face while I stare at the crater’s sheer side.
Unblinking.
Unmoving.
I just … lie. Lids heavy, head heavier. Feeling weaker and more brittle than I did when I woke confused in that cell so many aurora cycles ago—way back at the very beginning.
My sluggish mind churns as I try to grapple this new, warped reality into something that makes sense …
Was he not dead?
Did I not strangle him for long enough?
Was he playing me the fool?
Get up, Raeve.
Groaning, I roll sideways, then push to my hands and knees.
Wobble.
I lift my head, seeing double the tents. Double the crowd. Double the big, glaring ball of sun.
My arms buckle, and my face collides with the sand.
Hock’s weapon whirls through the air, thumping to a halt beside my ax before I’m cast in his broad shadow.
Get. The. Fuck. Up!
Snarling, I finally manage to clamber to my feet and spin.
The ground tips.
Heavier than I’ve ever felt, I stumble with the world’s violent tilt, barely catching myself.
Hock stalks toward me, muscles rippling with each prowling step, his neck slashed with deep, ruddy indents to match his eyes—the whites now stained red from his choking strain. Making him look wild.
Rabid.
“Gúide,” he growls, which must mean submit because Saiza’s screaming it from the sidelines. “Gúide, Kholu.”
“Fuck you,” I slur, spitting a wad of blood on the ground, my lids threatening to slam shut. “And my name’s Raeve, you corrupt piece of shit.”
He grunts, lunging. Cracks his fist against my jaw so fast I barely realize I’m falling, watching the strings of skulls sift by in rapid motion, until I collide with the ground. All the breath erupts from my lungs, and I cough, hacking for breath. Trying to scramble to my feet again—
He straddles me, his dense weight packed upon my hips.
I thread my hand up his right thigh and work my fingers past the gaping leather, into the long slice Zaran created earlier with his rounded sword.
Hock roars, snatching my wrist, then the other. He pins them to the ground above my head, the beating gong somehow tilling the air with its harrowing throb, dashing sand into my eyes.
The back of Hock’s hand collides with my cheek with such force the entire world rips sideways, my head snapping with the motion, mouth lax and caked with sand.
My body shuts down from the hurt. The pain.
The ability to move.
“Gúide.”
I’d rather die than be bound to him against my will. The Fate Herder must surely know that.
That creature brought me here—to this very moment—knowing I’ll never submit. Meaning this …
This is an assassination.
Of me.
Definitely should’ve bowed.
“Gúide!” he repeats—a slashing command that shreds the air.
“Fuck … you,” I puff through bloody clumps of sand.
Fuck the Fate Herder.
Fuck everything.
A laugh crumbles up my throat as he fists my hair so tight I’m certain he’s about to tear big clumps from my scalp. Using it to lift my head again, he scowls down at me. My vision splits, converges.
Splits again.
That gong continues to beat, harder and harder, until the entire arena is a swirl of pulsing wind and sand.
I continue to laugh in Hock’s face, even as he raises his other hand—
A shadow eclipses the sun.
A roar cleaves the air.
Hock tips his head to the sky, his hand still set to strike me as a Sabersythe soars into view, dragging its monstrous claw through the crisscross of skull-laden ropes and ripping them skyward.
Skulls rain, pelting the sand like mini moonfalls.
Folk scream, but my pulse screams louder.
I’m certain I’m seeing things as Rygun drops upon the crater’s lip with a ground-shuddering thump. As Kaan uses Rygun’s ropes to propel himself down into the dip, shirtless but for his own málmr hanging around his neck, his beautiful face ripped with the wrath of a million maddened men.
I’m certain I’m seeing things as Kaan’s boots thump upon the ground. As he crunches his hands into fists, stalking toward me with footfalls that seem to shake the world while his lips shape words I recognize, the tendons in his neck straining as he wrestles with Bulder’s dialect.
I’m certain I’m seeing things as the crater begins to shake, a slash of relief almost severing me in two despite the massive crack weaving across the ground. Despite the way those ember eyes are locked on me—scarcely dressed, sprawled across the sand beneath another male intent on claiming the right to bind with me …
Probably not a good time to commend him on his hunting skills, but damn—it’s tempting.
Kaan dominates the crater, each long stride hailed by another shake of the ground, his body a tower of rippling brawn dappled with sweat that glistens in the sun, his scars pale against the rusty surrounds.