The Villain
Evie had been fatally wounded. There was no doubt in his mind as he watched her body fall forward, lifeless. An anguished yell reeled out from the very depths of his soul.
Trystan’s mist swirled, his anger and panic making it stronger, seeking a weak point on his enemies—anyone who harmed her. It struck the knight with the crossbow in the leg, and his armor clinked as he dropped like a stone. The remaining two fell back, though not before one of them called out, “More of us are coming, Villain. You cannot win against the entire Valiant Guard!”
Then they retreated into the darkness.
Trystan continued forward, considering for one heartbeat chasing after them, but only for one heartbeat. In the next, he was on the ground in front of Sage.
Her eyes were open. She still breathed. Thank the gods.
His voice was frantic, his hands panicky as they searched her chest, her shoulders; his breath was ragged when he came up empty. “The blood— where’s the blood?”
“Sir,” she said gently.
“We must stop the bleeding. You’ll be all right, Sage. Tatianna will heal you, and all will be well. Where is the blood? I can’t find the blood! I can’t see the wound!” He needed to stay calm—he didn’t want to panic her until the healer could arrive. Her muscles were already shaking. No, wait—she was perfectly still. His muscles were shaking.
Bloody brilliant.
“Trystan,” she said again, firmer, gasping when his hands traveled up to her cheeks, holding her head in place. She whispered, “It didn’t touch me.” And she held up the arrow, which had broken clean in two but with no
traces of having harmed her.
Wonder, relief, and befuddlement ran through him in equal measure as he crinkled his brow and angled his head. “How?” he breathed out.
She shrugged, wide eyes blinking at him. Alive. Unharmed. “I don’t know.” And she told him about how the dagger had emitted a light, her scar had burned, and then nothing. There was no explaining it, but the dagger— and whatever magic lay within it—must have protected her.
And she’d nearly traded the blasted thing away to save his life, just as she’d done now.
That had to stop. It all had to stop. “No more attempts at saving my life, Sage. As it stands, those acts of misguided bravery seem to be ticking years off my life rather than tacking them on.”
Her brow furrowed in the way that he adored, though the feeling was followed quickly by nausea. He wasn’t meant to adore things. He was meant to sneer in disgust. Speaking of which… His eyes followed the knights retreating in the distance.
“I let the last of them get away,” Trystan lamented. “They’ll tell the rest where we are.”
Evie’s upper lip curled as she looked directly into Trystan’s eyes, chilling him as she said, “Then why don’t you stop them?”
His eyes bored into hers, and a heated sensation climbed the back of his neck as he smiled, feeling truly villainous. “As the lady wishes.”
The gray mist sprinted across the land, over plants that shied away, until it reached the first guard, who was just visible at the edge of the fortress gates, illuminated by the torchlights. The man fell, and after a short pursuit, so did the next, both dropping from an angled death blow to the neck.
Good riddance.
But his relief was short-lived as his easy stance waned. He fell to his knees.
“Trystan! Are you all right?” Evie was suddenly next to him, rubbing a hand down his back. He could feel the color draining from his face as he sighed out of dry, cracked lips.
“I’m never this weak after using my magic,” he croaked out. “Never. Something is wrong with it. Somehow, it’s making me sick. I feel it… changing.” He couldn’t help it; his eyes darted over to hers. A look of realization passed between them, and the truth of it was unpleasant.
She stumbled back, away from him, and his body immediately missed her
warmth, her proximity. “You think it’s me? You think it’s my fault?”
He shut his eyes tight, fighting two different kinds of pain. “You’re the only one who can see it. And ever since it revealed itself to you, it hasn’t been the same. I can’t risk it failing me like that again. Without my death magic, I cannot fight Benedict or my enemies. Without it…am I even The Villain?”
He’d never felt more tired in his life. His body hurt; his heart hurt. But he had to protect Sage and he had to protect himself, and this was the only way he knew how.
“We should— We should keep our distance for the foreseeable future. Just in case. Just to be sure.”
The look on her face was one he never thought he’d see there—let alone be the cause of. It was betrayal and shock and pure, true hurt.
He called the mist back, and it left Sage slowly, almost begrudgingly. He knew how it felt. “We have to go to the house to warn Lady Fortis and the rest of them.”
Sage nodded, tucking her dagger back into its holster tied with leather about her ankle. As they made their way toward the fortress, she committed the most heinous act a person could in his presence.
She started to cry.
He’d never felt smaller than he did in that moment.
“Sage.” He tried to gentle his voice, stepping a little closer as they walked. “Please don’t cry over me.”
“I’m not crying over you!” she insisted with a sniffle. “You’re so self- centered.”
He cleared his throat. He didn’t know why Benedict was working so hard to destroy him; all it took to fell The Villain was the sound of his apprentice crying. “Would it make you feel better if I let you try your hand at torture?”
She side-eyed him. “You’re trying to make me laugh, and it’s not going to work.”
“Well, that’s fortunate. I’m not very funny.” He got closer still, then bumped her shoulder. “C’mon, Sage. Ripping off some fingernails? Listening to the knights’ screams? I’ll even let you use the torture rack.”
She kicked a rock, sullen, but he thought he could see the tiniest beginning of a smile. “What’s a torture rack?”
“It’s a device that stretches your limbs apart until they snap off.”
She gagged. “What? That is so gross!” She slapped his arm. “You always
assume that the only way to get information out of someone is pain. But I’d be far more willing to spill all my secrets if I felt pleasure.”
He coughed, hard, banging on his chest. It was a wonder he still had any oxygen left around this woman.
She frowned at him. “Are you well?” “No.”
The smile grew on her lips, and now it stayed there. Though he turned away, he could feel her eyes on him still as they moved.
They were nearly to the doors of the fortress when a scream wrenched the air—high, piercing, and bloodcurdling—and Sage startled, a look of pure horror on her face.
“Sage? What is it? Are you all right?” he asked. The scream sounded again, louder this time. “For the love of the gods! Who in the deadlands is screaming?”
She shoved the fortress’s door open and said without feeling: “My mother.”
