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Chapter Forty-One

Fenli

H e threw the lamp to the floorboards between us, oil soaking the wood and lighting in a blinding swell of flames.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” I heard him yell over the whoosh of fire. I held up my arm to protect my face and tumbled backwards into the table. “Tell your father that I did as he would have wanted.”

I squinted into the light just in time to see him slip behind the door. It closed, and I heard the damning sound of the lock.

“Axl!” I shouted. “Axl, don’t!”

But I knew my pleas would be in vain.

“Help! Someone!”

But they were all in the meeting house, debating me, and I would be too far away for them to hear.

I had to get myself out.

I looked for something I could use to smother the fire.

There was no blanket on the bed, but there was the mattress.

I grabbed the thin pad and threw it on the blaze, moving it by the corner to try and put out as much as I could.

But the stupid thing was too small. The flames licked high wherever the mattress wasn’t covering, and the boards relit as soon as the mattress was moved. Then the whole thing caught fire.

I cursed, stumbling back. It was hot on my face, fueled by the oil, and I knew it was too late for me to put it out.

I looked back at the vent. I hadn’t been able to fit before, and now the ceiling was filling with smoke.

It wouldn’t work.

I scanned the hut franticly. I found no escape, but the fire was growing quickly, spreading across the floor and up the far wall.

I couldn’t die like this. Not by fire, not as one of Runehall’s.

I looked for loose boards. Everything was new and tight and secure. I needed a flaw. I searched for one frantically, but all I could come up with was a small gap where the floorboards didn’t quite meet.

It was all I had.

There was a fire poker back by the stove, and I grabbed it. My hurt wrist was no help while I jammed the tip into the space and tried to pry it wider.

The poker was almost too big. Again and again I struck the gap and dug my iron in. When I’d earned a small bit of space and the sweat was running into my eyes, I rocked the bar back and forth.

It gave slowly. I glanced back at the roaring fire.

Too slowly.

It was hot on my face, sending my hair back as waves of heat poured over me.

I doubled my efforts. Looking at the board I had yet to pull up, I put my whole body into the work.

I ignored my wrist and heaved with everything I had, both hands, both arms, all my weight.

I grit my teeth with effort. Panic swelled in my chest, and I swallowed it down, tried in vain to calm myself, swallowed it down again.

Bit by bit, the board began to pull up.

Angry tears were streaking with the sweat on my face by the time I got the first row of nails free. I slid the bar down in the gap, adjusted my angle, and pried again.

My arms shook with effort. The fire was up the wall and licking the ceiling across the small hut. The sounds of crackling and popping wood grew louder in my ears, and when the fire roared, I roared back.

I was losing control of my breaths, my heart beating furiously in my chest. I didn’t want to die. I could barely see through the tears as my body shook, in fear or effort—I wasn’t sure.

Gasping, I worked the board up little by little.

The flames came close enough to scorch my leg.

My pants caught fire, and I wasted too many moments beating the flames out with my palm.

Pivoting, I tried to distance myself, tried to ignore the pain and focus on my only shot at saving my life. I tried like hell to remain calm.

When the next row of nails pulled free, I was able to pry the board up and hold it while pushing one arm and shoulder through, followed by my head.

The wood rested heavy on my back when I released it and brought my other arm into the small space.

It dug at my skin as I drug myself forward.

My torso was mostly through when my hands found the cool ground.

The relief I felt with the fire no longer heavy on my face and arms made me feel a desperate hope.

I tried to follow with my hips and legs, but the board caught the top of my pants.

I pulled with no give. I scrambled, frantic.

Still, I was stuck. I felt the heat on my legs.

“No,” I growled. “I will not burn.”

I pushed back a bit, then tried again .

Still caught.

“Runehall!”

I pushed back again.

“You cannot have me!”

I shot forward, kicking and scrambling like a wild animal. I caught once more, my skin burning when the edge cut me, then broke free, collapsing onto the dirt. My chin struck the ground, and I fell into a crumpled heap, kicking my legs to straighten myself.

I was in the crawl space under the hut. Coughing, I shuffled away from the place where I’d broken through the floor and went to the far end of the small space, as far from the heart of the fire as I could.

It wasn’t far enough. Slowly, the boards overhead caught fire and began being eaten by the flames. When I reached the end of the crawl space, I met with the stone foundation. What would normally be cool was now warm and growing warmer.

I wasn’t out yet.

Desperate, my fingers clawed the stones, looking for a weak spot. If I could pull out even a few, I would have a chance at crumbling enough to work myself out.

The foundation was solid.

“Damn it,” I whispered, then coughed.

I drug my hands over the wall once more. Nothing gave. I tried to claw something out, anything. They were wedged in tightly. I drove my shoulder into the foundation until the pain was dizzying. It didn’t help.

I pressed my forehead to the warming stones and tried to gulp down air, which only made me cough. The fire drew closer behind me, and I wanted to cry. That was when I heard the voices. People outside, yelling for others .

I rallied.

“Help!” I shouted. “Here!”

My lungs spasmed, and I was back to coughing.

“Help,” I gasped, too quietly. “Help!”

But I didn’t think anyone could hear me over the roar of the fire and their own shouting.

“Assholes ,” I said, my voice shaking. “You never hear me.

“Down here!” I tried to shout. “Down here!”

It was no use. No one heard my cries, not when everyone else was crying out and yelling, not when the fire was roaring in all our ears. I coughed, and wheezed, and no one heard that either.

I pressed my back into the stones and pressed my palms into my stinging eyes. I had to think. I had to make it out. I couldn’t die here, not like this, not by fire. Runehall wouldn’t have me, I wouldn’t let him.

“Where is she?”

My head snapped up. That sounded like—

“Where the hell is she?”

It was Roan, shouting on the other side of my prison.

“Roan!” I scrambled to my knees and pressed my mouth to the stones. “Roan, I’m—”

I broke off, coughing.

Nothing.

“Roan, help,” I tried again. “I’m here!”

But my throat was damaged and weak. I was gasping, coughing, unable to shout. I’d taken in too much smoke. My voice wasn’t loud enough.

“Help,” I whispered.

“Fen!” he shouted. “Fen, are you there? ”

I couldn’t die like this.

That was all I could think. And then I knew what to do. My heartbeat slowed, and a tear slipped down my check, even as the hope surged in my chest. I tipped back my head, sipped a small breath—and howled.

The sound was smoother on my blackened lungs and my raw throat. I could sustain it, and I could grow it louder. I sputtered a cough and started again, picking up the note once more.

“Fen.” I heard him say. “Quiet! I can hear her.”

I howled with everything I had. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I wobbled between notes, between coughing fits, between fear and hope.

“She’s in the crawl space,” I could hear him say, his voice growing closer. “Fen, don’t stop.”

I howled until I heard his voice was just on the other side of the stone.

“Roan,” I squeezed out. My throat burned. “I’m here. Help.”

“I’m here!” he echoed. “I hear you. I’m gonna get you out. Hold on, just hold on.”

I leaned against the stone and listened to the sound of him fumbling and cursing. The fire was painfully hot on my back, and the smoke was building, despite my low vantage point.

“Someone get me a maul!” he was shouting.

I wasn’t sure how much time I had left and if he would get to me before it was too late, but it felt good to know someone else was working to help me, that I wasn’t all alone.

Then his words were in my ears.

“Fen, you need to get back.”

I barely had time to scramble to the side before the first strike came.

The crack made me flinch. The fire roared to my right, and the smoke poured, thick and black.

It burned my eyes. I coughed violently, and the second strike came, followed by another and another.

I couldn’t see for how blurred my vision was, and I couldn’t tell if it was working, if he was getting through the rock.

All I could feel was heat on my skin and smoke in my lungs until I felt—him.

His hands. They wrapped around my arms and pulled me forward, towards the foundation, until he was pulling me out, into cold air and— rain .

He pulled me into the rain and into his arms.