Chapter 41: Secrets Laid Bare

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I touch my neck. No cuts. No gashes. No blood. It wasn't real. My neck is fine. Trying to force my connection with the julite on his head was a mistake. I climb up on all fours and regain my bearings.

Tytius is reaching over the bed for the red cord. I leap up after him, and my fist slams into his head. The crown goes flying, clanging off the stone floor. My hand jerks to his bare neck. The connection is formed, and Tytius is put to sleep.

The red cord sits coiled around his outstretched arm. He pulled it free from the ceiling. A bell rings high up overhead – the alarm.

The soldiers guarding the staircase must already be on their way up. I have seconds.

I grab the crown and loop it through my belt. I shove open the double doors and leap into the hallway.

A sharp pain shoots through my head. The blunt hilt of a soldier's sword sends me to the floor, falling to my hands and knees. A long groan escapes my lips as the pain bounces around my skull.

Gleaming silver swords appear just inches from my face. Voices roar over my head. I look up – large men – soldiers. Their blades approach. "Back witch!" they shout.

I stumble away from them, back into the king's bedroom. I try to stand. A rod hits my shoulder, and I collapse again. They've surrounded all sides. There are so many of them.

"Drive it back!" A gruff voice barks. "Touch it with nothing but steel!"

I raise my head. The one issuing orders is dressed in a decorated maroon oban – the Hunt Unit. His short black hair is neatly trimmed, and his brown eyes glare like they wish death upon me.

Sharp blades inch closer to my face. I stumble backwards again, the crown on my belt poking at the small of my back. The maroon soldier knows my connection requires skin-to-skin contact. He's prepared.

Long halberds press down on my shoulders, keeping my knees on the ground. Back inside the king's bedroom, the soldiers fan out, the tips of their blades aimed at my torso.

I still. When they straighten their arms, their steel swords will puncture my body. As a child, I cut my hand on a leatherworking knife. The pain was so sharp and overwhelming. I wanted nothing more than to escape that agony.

"The king lives!" A man calls from the bed. "Though he is without presence."

The maroon soldier raises his sword, preparing to bring it down upon my shoulder. I can't move without impaling myself. His weapon will be tenfold worse than the leatherworking knife. My stomach twists so tight I can't breathe.

"No." A soldier of the Palace Guard catches his arm. "Striking a witch with mere steel shall allow her to rise from the grave, tormenting those who put her down. We must retrieve the blade blessed by Nomier."

The blade blessed by Nomier – I remember that weapon from the night they raided Sisarea. They're going to execute me according to their custom.

The maroon soldier lowers his sword, pointing the tip just an inch from the bridge of my nose. "Bring the blessed blade." His eyes don't leave my form.

"'Tis in the second level treasury," a soldier at my back says.

Two Palace Guards in black obans head out the door, eager to bring back the weapon.

Warm blood drips down my ear. The blow in the hallway broke my skin.

Who was I to think I could steal the julite when the task was beyond even the other sorcerers? I just couldn't bare living with my connection anymore, to the point where I threw my own life away. Maybe I should've just been content to stay isolated. The first person my connection killed was Mehlia, and the second will be me.

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