Page 83 of A Queen’s Betrayal (Legends of Worldbinders #1)
Copper coated Arenna’s tongue, mixed with a thick layer of dust. She coughed, choking on the dryness in her throat, panic racing through her heart. Blood dripped from her ears, leaving an unwelcome wetness down her neck.
The ringing in her head drowned out everything else.
She couldn’t hear a single sound over the high-pitched squealing.
She quickly realized she was trapped between the floor and the shattered pieces of her dresser.
She tried to move, grunting as she pushed upwards with the little strength left in her arms. Her body ached and screamed in pain from the weight of the wood.
After three failed attempts, she let out a choked sob, her head falling back to the floor. Emotion clogged her throat, fear and frustration battling for dominance. Arenna scanned what was once her room with hazy vision.
Stone littered the floor, covering her hands and legs. Though her body strained under broken furniture, she didn’t think anything had penetrated her skin in the blast—at least, not that she knew of.
Screams echoed from the gaping hole where her balcony doors had once stood. She heard pleas for help, for mercy, for lost loved ones. That was all Arenna needed to find a surge of adrenaline as she slammed the free portion of her body into the broken dresser.
Again and again she thrusted, fueling herself with all the rage and pain and fear, using it to free herself. With one last strike, what remained of the dresser clattered away, and Arenna breathed deeply as the pressure in her lungs subsided.
She coughed, pounding a fist into her chest, nearly retching as more dust filled her empty lungs. The air was foggy, filled with falling debris and ash.
As close as she could get without falling over, Arenna glanced over the edge at the chaos below.
At the base of the mountain Castle Worden sat upon, a violent display of red and black was visible.
Steel clashed, blood spilled. The air was filled with cries, screams, and the grunts of battle, all blending into a muffled whirl in Arenna’s mind, even above the ringing in her ears.
Bringing her hands to her head, she choked on a sob—paralyzed by fear, unable to think, unable to act. Jaksen was out there somewhere, and the thought that she might see him, that he might find her again, was enough to make every part of her want to shut down.
Arenna closed her eyes, letting the molten flame inside her soothe the fear. After a few breaths and steadying herself on what little remained of the bed frame, she opened her eyes, knowing she would never let Jaksen hurt her again.
When she gathered herself enough to function, Arenna ran toward the mostly intact bathing chamber, where she found a leather strap to tie back her hair. With a quick look in the mirror, she saw no visible cuts on her leather and deemed it fit enough for whatever battle might come.
Worden shook violently again. Arenna stumbled, crashing to the ground, her hands landing in a pile of shattered glass.
She hissed in pain, quickly pulling her hands back to inspect the damage.
A few small shards had pierced her skin, but nothing too deep—she’d been lucky.
The natural healing effects of her power took hold, making quick work of the gashes in her palms.
Arenna pushed herself to her feet, gripping her weapon tightly as she flung open her chamber door.
It took all her effort not to recoil at the sight—body parts, broken stone, shattered wood, and blood covered the floor, smeared across the walls.
The air was thick with smoke and dust, but she couldn’t afford to hesitate.
She couldn’t allow herself to lose control.
Taking a deep breath, she sprinted through the halls, trying to cover her mouth as she stepped in puddles of blood and jumped over the bodies of servants, soldiers, and guards.
Screaming echoed, but Arenna didn’t stop running. She needed to get to the front line, where Marea, Bramnen, and Wylder likely were. Where Kayson might be. Emerlon wasn’t particularly close without a rippling capsule, so she sprinted toward the apothecary.
After two flights of stairs and endless halls, Arenna’s thighs burned, her lungs struggling for air. Despite all her training, nothing had prepared her body for the onslaught of Brookworth, for the Sorrows they rained down on this kingdom.
She turned the corner to the apothecary but skidded to a halt at the stream of red and silver funneling through a gaping hole in Worden’s thick walls. Brookworth soldiers cut down servants scrambling, screaming, and pleading for help as blades sliced across their throats.
Around her stood soldiers of different shapes and sizes, but all with the same stupid grin. Rage exploded inside of Arenna—making her see nothing but red. Worden servants were begging for mercy as soldiers placed iron bracelets around their wrists to suppress their magic.
Arenna didn’t hesitate for another second.
She walked in the center of the hall, arms at her sides, palms toward the small group of soldiers, no more than ten.
A few heads snapped in her direction, mouths opening in demanding shouts not to move, but most didn’t see their deaths coming as her flame incinerated the men in serpent armor.
Infernus .
She screamed as her fire tore free, as flames licked the bodies of every serpent soldier in the room.
With outstretched palms and streams of burning power, Arenna shouted, “ Go ,” at the servants huddled in the corner, their tear-filled eyes wide and unblinking.
“Get to safety.” The small group of females bolted for the stairwell, racing toward the safety of the castle’s depths.
Once Arenna was sure no one else remained, she retracted her flame, her shoulders sagging.
She hunched over, placing both hands on her knees, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
“ Breathe ,” she whispered to herself. “Just breathe.” She glanced at her hands; the tips of her fingers tinged with gray.
She hadn’t slept well the night before—hadn’t really slept at all.
Her reservoir of power was small, but it was fighting. She just needed to ration it carefully.
A gurgling sound pulled Arenna’s attention. She looked down to find Selphia struggling beneath the steady flow of her own blood, hands desperately clutching the gash across her pale skin.
“ NO! ” Arenna screamed, rushing to the chambermaid’s side. Panic surged as she assessed the wound. “What-what happened,” she stammered, her voice thick with fear. Selphia’s eyes fluttered closed, her arms sagging.
“No, no, no,” Arenna whimpered, pressing her hands into Selphia’s neck. Blood seeped through the cracks of her fingers, running down her wrists and into the cuffs of her jacket.
She could not bear losing another friend.
Feet scuffling against marble echoed from the right. Arenna snapped her head in the direction, relieved to find a group of young females with white, glowing tattoos around their biceps. Healers . “ Please ,” she cried, “help her.”
Their responses were hardly heard as they carefully pushed Arenna to the side, crowding around Selphia. They each took various objects from their packs—tonics, bandages, scissors, and blades.
Arenna blinked, watching in horror as the healers worked frantically to treat Selphia. Her skin was ghostly white, her eyes lifeless, and her favorite pink dress was stained with blood.
A storm thrashed inside Arenna as she scooted backward, her heart pounding so violently it ached.
Selphia’s head lolled to the side, her dark brown eyes meeting Arenna’s.
Without hesitation, she crawled through puddles of blood and past the burnt soldiers to reach her friend. Gently, she brushed back the sticky, sweat-soaked strands of Selphia’s hair clinging to her forehead. “You will be okay,” she whispered.
Selphia blinked once, the movement slow and strained.
“Please, don’t let her die.” Arenna’s lip trembled as she pleaded with one of the healers. The woman gave a curt nod before returning her focus to Selphia.
After catching her breath, Arenna stood and stepped through the piles of blackened ash, showing no respect for the fallen soldiers. She grabbed a discarded sword and sheathed it in the slot on the back of her vest.
Explosions echoed through the white-stone castle as Arenna ran, ducking and diving over fallen wood and furniture, stepping carefully over shattered glass and porcelain.
She had never witnessed anything like this, not even during her time in Brookworth.
Under her reign, no one had ever dared to attack or bring harm to her people.
Panic and fear clawed at her, tempting her to freeze, to hide until the chaos subsided. But she would never cower again. Especially not when the only logical reason for Brookworth unleashing Sorrows upon Worden was her presence within its walls.
By the time she reached the apothecary and shoved the door, five more explosions had rocked the castle. The door stopped part way open, blocked by debris or furniture.
Gritting her teeth, Arenna braced herself, aimed her shoulder at the door, and rammed into the wood until she could squeeze inside. She stumbled, catching her footing on a nearby desk.
Arenna swore her heart stopped at the sight of the room.
Half-broken potion bottles littered the shelves, colorful liquids oozing down the wood and pooling on the counters.
Tables were overturned. Chairs were smashed to pieces.
It wasn’t an explosion that had ravaged this room.
It looked like a person had done this. Maybe even several.
A small pool of blood halted Arenna in her tracks. “Itta?” she called out, her voice trembling. “Itta, are you here?”
A groan came from the closet doorway on the right side of the room. Arenna bolted toward it, yanking the door open to find Itta slumped on the floor, wounded.