Ren.
Tyrus wears the same commanding officer uniform I’ve seen him in before. Fitted and spangled with badges and pendants, a patch on his left breast pocket labeled
Blinnsdale.
His mustache is as dominant a feature as ever, as is his purple hand which alights at once, filling the drafty air with little dancing, purple flecks.
Tyrus lifts his hand, and I clutch at my sternum, startling when I realize the teardrop isn’t here. Curse it. I splay my hands instinctively; ready to block whatever charge he’s sending, but instead of attacking, he speaks.
"You remembered that tunnel,” he says.
“So it would seem,” says Ren with challenge in his eyes.
Talon signals his soldiers forward. “Too bad you won’t be following your…” His gaze sweeps across the open cells. “Friends.”
A streak of purple light shoots from Tyrus’s hands. Shasa whirls forward, knocking me hard against the wall and yanking Ren out of the way.
Ren and Shasa fall back and begin fighting with soldiers. I summon my magic, spinning to join the fray when an arm slides around my waist from behind, squeezing tight. I flail my arms, knocking my fists in any and every direction. Hands are there, purple and gleaming. They snap something thin, silver, and amazingly heavy around each of my wrists.
Instantly, the cool stream churning in my bones withers. My magic pinches out into nothing but steam like a fire doused with water. I jab an elbow back against the man holding me. He shoves me to the stone, my palms scraping against the grit. I wheel around to see the soldier’s single golden tooth inserted among the white ones of his menacing smile. His nametag reads,
Naylor.
Behind him I catch sight of Ren in the arms of a soldier and being herded toward the tunnel.
“No you don’t,” Shasa calls out, but not in time to stop them. So she tails, chasing after the soldiers who have my brother.
I debate following, but I can’t leave Talon here. And without magic, I don’t stand a chance against them. I attempt for it again, but the same empty stream responds, blowing cool air through my bones and sending goosebumps along my skin in the process.
Tyrus crouches at Talon’s feet. Naylor and Lewis close in behind their leader. Slowly, Talon bends one leg, then another. He’s healing. Not fast enough, though.
“Stay away from him,” I cry, knowing it won’t do any good. I search the area, begging for something—anything—I can use to get them away from him.
Tyrus interlocks his fingers, elbows resting on his knees. “They healed you, did they? Good. I’ll need you whole for this anyway.”
“You don’t want to do this,” says Talon, attempting to push up from the floor.
The smile is evident in Tyrus’s voice as he presses Talon back down with a hand on his shoulder. “I can’t let you just leave, son. Not after what you did the last time. I banked everything I had on you, and you let me down.”
“You banked everything you had on your schemes. I wanted no part in it anymore.”
Tyrus sniffs and, quicker than a snap, his purple-tinged hand goes to Talon’s throat. While Tyrus is fast, Talon is still faster. One hand on Tyrus’s wrist, Talon grips him just below the elbow and knocks the Arcaian behind the ear, the chains from his shackles clinking.
Tyrus crumples to the ground. Talon succeeds at pushing himself up, but his knees give way almost instantly. Naylor and Lewis move in, pinning him against the wall. Lewis punches Talon in the stomach, releasing him to buckle back down to the stone grime. At a lower vantage point, Talon dives for Lewis’s legs, knocking the Arc so hard he timbers like a tree trunk. He smacks his head against the stone and lies, unmoving.
Naylor rubs the back of Tyrus’s lolling head, chafing his back, attempting to revive him. Talon drags himself upward again, while Naylor snatches the guard’s fallen blade and drives it toward Talon’s side. Talon sniffs, chains clinking as he tries to dodge, but
Tyrus wears the same commanding officer uniform I’ve seen him in before. Fitted and spangled with badges and pendants, a patch on his left breast pocket labeled
Blinnsdale.
His mustache is as dominant a feature as ever, as is his purple hand which alights at once, filling the drafty air with little dancing, purple flecks.
Tyrus lifts his hand, and I clutch at my sternum, startling when I realize the teardrop isn’t here. Curse it. I splay my hands instinctively; ready to block whatever charge he’s sending, but instead of attacking, he speaks.
"You remembered that tunnel,” he says.
“So it would seem,” says Ren with challenge in his eyes.
Talon signals his soldiers forward. “Too bad you won’t be following your…” His gaze sweeps across the open cells. “Friends.”
A streak of purple light shoots from Tyrus’s hands. Shasa whirls forward, knocking me hard against the wall and yanking Ren out of the way.
Ren and Shasa fall back and begin fighting with soldiers. I summon my magic, spinning to join the fray when an arm slides around my waist from behind, squeezing tight. I flail my arms, knocking my fists in any and every direction. Hands are there, purple and gleaming. They snap something thin, silver, and amazingly heavy around each of my wrists.
Instantly, the cool stream churning in my bones withers. My magic pinches out into nothing but steam like a fire doused with water. I jab an elbow back against the man holding me. He shoves me to the stone, my palms scraping against the grit. I wheel around to see the soldier’s single golden tooth inserted among the white ones of his menacing smile. His nametag reads,
Naylor.
Behind him I catch sight of Ren in the arms of a soldier and being herded toward the tunnel.
“No you don’t,” Shasa calls out, but not in time to stop them. So she tails, chasing after the soldiers who have my brother.
I debate following, but I can’t leave Talon here. And without magic, I don’t stand a chance against them. I attempt for it again, but the same empty stream responds, blowing cool air through my bones and sending goosebumps along my skin in the process.
Tyrus crouches at Talon’s feet. Naylor and Lewis close in behind their leader. Slowly, Talon bends one leg, then another. He’s healing. Not fast enough, though.
“Stay away from him,” I cry, knowing it won’t do any good. I search the area, begging for something—anything—I can use to get them away from him.
Tyrus interlocks his fingers, elbows resting on his knees. “They healed you, did they? Good. I’ll need you whole for this anyway.”
“You don’t want to do this,” says Talon, attempting to push up from the floor.
The smile is evident in Tyrus’s voice as he presses Talon back down with a hand on his shoulder. “I can’t let you just leave, son. Not after what you did the last time. I banked everything I had on you, and you let me down.”
“You banked everything you had on your schemes. I wanted no part in it anymore.”
Tyrus sniffs and, quicker than a snap, his purple-tinged hand goes to Talon’s throat. While Tyrus is fast, Talon is still faster. One hand on Tyrus’s wrist, Talon grips him just below the elbow and knocks the Arcaian behind the ear, the chains from his shackles clinking.
Tyrus crumples to the ground. Talon succeeds at pushing himself up, but his knees give way almost instantly. Naylor and Lewis move in, pinning him against the wall. Lewis punches Talon in the stomach, releasing him to buckle back down to the stone grime. At a lower vantage point, Talon dives for Lewis’s legs, knocking the Arc so hard he timbers like a tree trunk. He smacks his head against the stone and lies, unmoving.
Naylor rubs the back of Tyrus’s lolling head, chafing his back, attempting to revive him. Talon drags himself upward again, while Naylor snatches the guard’s fallen blade and drives it toward Talon’s side. Talon sniffs, chains clinking as he tries to dodge, but
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