Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 156210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 781(@200wpm)___ 625(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 781(@200wpm)___ 625(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Several horses dash into the clearing, with Sylvan heading the party despite being the most insignificant member of the Goldweed line. His father and Elodie are right behind him, but as they halt, his heels hit the ground first.
“It’s poison!” Kyran grits through his teeth, holding Tristan in his arms. “This was not a bolt meant for the stag.”
Tristan gasps for air, his face turning gray, throat swelling. “M-my duty—” he tries to speak, but it becomes impossible for him, and all I can think of is that this poison was meant for Kyran.
“We will track this assassin!” Gabriel Goldweed yells out, and gestures at his daughter.
Elodie takes in the scene with a somber expression, but she stalls when her gaze lands on me. She must understand what happened despite me standing here uselessly.
And I see it. Her shadow recoils under her cloak when our eyes meet. She can’t be afraid of me, can she? I’m barely a baby taking his first steps in my understanding of shadowcraft.
She follows her father out of the clearing as Sylvan runs to us with his cheeks going pink.
“What can we do?” I ask Kyran.
The reality of maybe losing Tristan hovers over us like a guillotine. I’ve seen death since I arrived in the Nightmare Realm, even brushed against it myself, but this is too damn close.
Tristan has often been my companion, eager to learn about my world, happy to joke around or teach me things. I know he has a violent side, there are eels on his forearms to prove it, but he lives in a cruel, dangerous world, so that’s to be expected.
He’s been nothing but kind to me.
He’s a bright flame and doesn’t deserve to go out this way.
Kyran clenches his teeth. “We need to get him to the medics in the palace.”
“No! Don’t move him!” Sylvan yells and drops to his knees by Tristan’s side. Some of his silvery blond strands escaped the neat, slicked-back hairdo, and hang in his face. He’s tiny, dainty even, but commands Kyran’s attention like a scalpel that doesn’t need to be large to cut deeply.
“What do you know about this?” Kyran asks. “Where is your brother?” he adds in a low voice that promises death and destruction for the wrong answer.
Sylvan looks up at him with eyes like two bright sapphires frozen in ice, but he’s dipping his delicate fingers in the… ground? No. In the shadow. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Last time I saw him, he was nursing his bruised face. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Focus on Tristan!” Kyran snarls as the Marquise paces right behind us.
Sylvan’s lips are a tight line, and I watch him lift a pale shadow out of the ground around him. With a grunt of effort, he moves it over Tristan. “I know this poison. We need to slow down his heart so the venom doesn’t spread all over his body, then get a medic here. That’s his only chance.”
Thick strands of Kyran’s hair lift, as if lightning was about to strike him. “And your shadow helps with that, how?”
Sylvan is panting with effort, and a sheen of sweat glints on his forehead. “It might be weak, but it’s a container.”
I see it now. The pale shadow Sylvan has created is like a coffin holding Tristan’s prone body. The small elf pulls out a vial containing a lilac powder from the pocket of his jacket and sprinkles it onto the barrier.
I’m gaining a whole new appreciation for alchemy, because brute force would not have saved Tristan. This way, he has a chance. We just need—
“I’ll go fetch a medic!” the Marquise says, heading for her horse.
Kyran gets up as well. “The assassin is somewhere out there,” he warns through gritted teeth, fists clenched. His shadow trembles, releasing wisps of smoke that crawl up his arms.
She shakes her head, mounting her mare. “I’ll be fine. I wasn’t the target.”
“I’ll find the bastard who did this and rip his fucking spine out of his back,” Kyran growls as we watch the Marquise disappear between the trees.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, all too aware of just how painfully useless I am despite my awakening to shadowcraft.
Sylvan shakes his head, squinting at me as if I’m a splinter under his nail. “Well, it’s not like you can help me hold it,” he says, pointing to the translucent shadow coffin around Tristan.
At least my friend isn’t choking anymore, and instead seems to drift off into a peaceful slumber. He reminds me of Sleeping Beauty in her glass coffin. The lilac powder sparkles in the moonlight, giving his skin an otherworldly glow.
“He can,” Kyran says, still scanning the forest, his back turned to us. I can sense his anger. He’s like a feral wolf dreaming of a hunt but chained to us for Tristan’s safety. And mine.