Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Ikick out a leg and open my eyes, still gripped by a terrifying dream. Falling. Into a cold abyss.
But the darkness around me is real, not imagined.
My breath immediately bounces back to me.
I shift my arms and feel something tightly woven—
Coffinweed.
Panic surges as I hit the lid; it bows inward under some external pressure, close to collapsing. I force myself to stay still. Soil. I’ve been buried. I fight the urge to flail—
Breathe in and out. Stay calm. Maximise the time I have.
Before I die.
Again.
My heart pounds and throbs in my throat. I croak out a desperate plea.
Maybe no one can come. Or maybe they just won’t.
Suddenly, a muffled voice, a sense of urgency so strong it leaks through the weave. “Hold on, Cael.” My ears tingle, searching for more, but there’s only the howl of wind.
The coffin lid bows deeper. Soil trickles over my face.
I cough violently, each convulsion sending more soil sifting in—
The winds quiet and a rhythmic scuffing follows. Quin’s familiar pain flows over me with the rich earthiness of soil. He must be close, bearing weight on his bad leg. For once, the scent of his pain brings me comfort. He’s here.
Darkness lightens a fraction; I glimpse the pattern of the weave enclosing me.
“Hold on.”
I slam my eyes shut. My throat is sore, my chest is on fire.
Brightness suddenly pours in around me, a stinging glare that makes my eyes water. I haul in fresh air, and cough roughly. Quin’s blurry figure looms above. Urgent hands snatch me against a warm, heaving chest.
As my vision settles, I find myself in the king’s lap, surrounded by towering shelves of soil. I blink at the blues of his cloak and his jewelled fastenings above, the mix of relief and distress in his expression. He smells of wind and earth; his chest rises and falls evenly against me. My own hectic breath tries to mimic his calmer one. His gaze scans my body, checking each hand, arm, knee, foot. I cough violently again, the soil irritating my lungs. I turn away from him but he pulls me back, drawing his cloak to my mouth. “Cough.”
The offer is too gentle from a king who ordered my ‘death,’ and my stomach knots. A part of me wants to shove him away, but another part . . . I claw his cloak closer and press the soft material to my mouth.
When my coughing subsides into a small hiccup, I’m still clutching him, trembling. “You—you—”
His golden aura envelops me, and he presses my forehead and chest as he unblocks my meridians.
Pain throbs from him sudden and sharp, and I immediately shift off his leg—
He steers me right back, eyes flashing with insistence. “That’s not the pain I feel right now.”
The life-shortening tea. My hands clench even tighter around him. “Did Florentius . . .” I choke on the rest of the words.
“Yes. I got your message.”
“But—”
“I hid the poison halting pill in my cloak and took it once the vitalians were gone.”
Quin’s fingers comb through my hair, steady and deliberate, removing every grain of dirt as if that might remove my ordeal from my mind. His hand lingers a moment too long before he pulls it back. “You hesitated.”
I glare at him. “There were so many ways this could have failed. I feared it had.”
“I had to make them believe they’d succeeded.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t all an act. Not your expression during my execution . . . Disgust, anger. Hurt.”
“Don’t forget hate.”
“Quin—”
“Not aimed at you.”
“You turned away from me.”
His jaw tightens. “I couldn’t . . .”
“I really thought I’d die. At least you’d have been with me at the end.”
“Is that my role?”
I open my mouth and snap it shut. Laugh at myself. “I have difficulty treating you with reverence.”
“Why?”
“Is this an inquisition?”
“Yes.”
I scoff, even as I tremble in his arms. “Should I feel reverence for the man who buried me alive? Even if he is the one to pull me out?” Quin’s lips twitch, but whether it’s irritation or amusement, I can’t tell.
I stir sharply. “Get us out of this pit.”
“You certainly don’t hesitate to claim authority with me.”
“You’ve had plenty of chances to get rid of me. You mustn’t mind it too much.”
Something in Quin’s expression shifts along with the swell of his chest. But he simply commands the air to lift us from the pit, setting us down on a log among a dozen dirt mounds.
Beyond, more grassy mounds stretch out, and I shiver.
I jerk my head to Quin, who is sweeping soil back into the grave with twisting winds. “You gave me a fake-death spell?”
He gives me a sideways glance.
“But Florentius’s things were confiscated.”
“I retrieved them.”
“Does everyone think I’m dead?”
“Except Florentius, myself, and—”
He gestures across the mounds to an approaching figure. Skriniaris Evander, in the heavy blacks of mourning, carrying his cat in a basket. I jump to my feet, wobbling for a few seconds. He braces for my hug, holding me tightly. “You’re not allowed to die for real, you hear this old man?”