Page 42 of Heirs of the Cursed (A Curse for Two Souls #1)

41

Saevus Forest

Darcia ran. She ran through the trees, the wind and the night, guided by the strange light that flowed from her necklace and broke through the darkness.

The light of a star.

Above the chaos, her father’s last words echoed in her mind; the promise of a shared burden. When he had told her to follow the light, Darcia hadn’t understood what he meant. Now, as the pendant urged her forward, she realized he’d always known that she had to find her sister to face their fate together.

Her legs trembled, about to give out, but she didn’t let them as the sound of metal clashing and soldiers shouting rose between the tall trees of the forest. Darcia moved toward death, wandering deeper into Saevus Forest with a tell-tale heart.

Yet it wasn’t fear that flowed through her veins, not even a yearning for vengeance . . . It was hope . Hope to find freedom, to do those things she’d promised Gion. To do them for Caeli and for the cursed kingdom that had perished twenty-one years ago because of an unfair bargain whose fulfillment now rested on her shoulders.

None of the soldiers saw her as she stepped through the shadows that the towering trees created around the clearing.

Darcia had to hold back an exhale of surprise when her eyes set on her. There, on her feet, sword in hand, her twin fought against two soldiers. She held back the fury of the army and the bloodthirsty king who wished to hunt them down and destroy them once and for all with the blade of her weapon.

Alasdair fought beside her sister; lethal, violent and voracious.

Six were the king’s soldiers they had to face.

A high-pitched scream hung in the air as one of the soldiers grabbed her sister by the arm, digging his fingers into the open wound on her collarbones with his free hand. Still, she stirred in his grasp, unwilling to surrender.

“We got you, you dirty whore!” he spat as he shook her with violence.

For Caeli.

For Bassel and Sadira. For Gion.

For Bellmare and for Dawnfall . . .

Darcia stepped forward.

“You’re wrong,” she said in a firm voice. The battle stopped for a short moment. She met the gaze of all the soldiers and smiled at her soon-to-be prey. “Let the show begin.”

Naithea was breathing heavily as she swept her gaze over the soldiers who approached them with determination.

The blade of her sword was already stained with the blood of her enemies, even though none of them had fallen to the ground in surrender. She didn’t think she’d be able to fight them all by herself—not even with the help of the stranger who seemed reluctant to leave her side.

Then a soft voice broke through the shouts of combat.

It was the firm words that reverberated through the forest as a soldier yanked her by her arm that consumed her completely. There, mere steps away, was the young woman with whom she shared more than blood. With whom she shared a common destiny. Naithea noticed the resemblance immediately, made in the image of each other.

Time stood still when their gazes met. The fear that either of them might have felt at that moment was masked by a new layer of strength, of courage . . .

Her twin’s nod offered a silent warning and, taking the opportunity she offered, Naithea broke free with a punch on the soldier’s face and swept his legs to disarm him before everything around them fell into utter blackness.

Her heartbeat quickened as she watched her surroundings disappear, replaced with nature consumed by the holly of death and shadows of doom. When the screams of the soldiers reached her ears and faded into nothing, she stepped back and breathed in the scent of decay that accompanied the images that built around her. Images of a fallen kingdom that had called to her for years, that had tried to pull her back to where she belonged in order to save those who had perished a long time ago.

In the distance, she noticed her sister with her arms wide, accepting that darkness. Creating it. Her eyes had turned black as the abyss and her golden hair floated around her.

Naithea retrieved her sword, savoring the metallic taste of the blood that stained the inside of her mouth with a single promise in mind: to end them all

The shadows, the ruins around them, the bodies turning to stone with black veins framed in their skin . . .

Cursed, each and every one of them.

Darcia took advantage of their fear, weaving dark images with her fingers to bring upon the soldier’s deaths. Their emotions washed over her like a bath of freezing water, but it was their minds, glittering with bright threads of bloodthirst, that proved to her that none of them deserve to live for the thoughts they harbored.

Despite her twin’s own astonishment, her sword answered each attack for her. A fighter, a warrior . . . A young woman who had had everything taken from her and was willing to get blood on her hands to get it back.

While Darcia delved into her power, her sister and Alasdair knocked two soldiers unconscious. One of them fell backwards, tripping the one next to him. Another cut his own forearm and snarled angrily.

The wounded soldier lunged at Alasdair, but her screams of warning alerted him just in time to move out of the edge of his sword. He hurried to grab the weapon that lay on the cold ground and twirled it between his fingers until the hilt was firmly locked around his grip.

Darcia’s magic tugged at her. As her hands moved, drawing in the shadows and darkness that so terrified Laivalon, she discovered there was something else.

Hidden like a secret, a vibration resonated through her body.

A silent, imperceptible movement.

She looked at her sister, who was focused on the fight. Was it her power? Was it her magic calling to Darcia like an ominous beacon? No. It was something else, something different.

The voices, the screams . . . They all felt out of reach as one of the soldiers shook off her illusion and walked toward her with one goal in mind. His sword flashed in the light of the pendant that still glowed around her neck.

Darcia closed her eyes, bracing herself for the blow.

A white shadow flashed across the space, accompanied by a deafening roar. Darcia heard the man’s piercing scream before opening her eyes. With incredible voracity and fury, the beast devoured the soldier alive, staining its snout and fangs with thick blood.

The tiger turned her purple eyes on her—the symbol of Goddess Kazaris.

Darcia shared a silent word of gratitude before the tiger roared again and jumped into battle. But once she fell to her knees on the ground, Darcia Voreia couldn’t get back up.

Shrouded by shadows, Naithea fought against three soldiers and disposed of them with the help of the masked man. As two more advanced in their direction with threats leaving their lips, her eyes met his. In that brief connection, the same idea crossed their minds.

Together, they moved until they stood back-to-back, ready to one another and get out of the forest alive. The soldiers then surrounded them, shrinking their movement space and circling around them to assess their weaknesses and opportunities for attack.

“Do you really think you can beat us?” a soldier asked, and his companions laughed.

“Shut up, Magnar!” Naithea growled.

“You’re not even a third of the warrior you think you are.”

The masked man gave them a sidelong glance. “I think she’s doing just fine,” he laughed. “She’s beaten your commander in a fair fight and she’s kicking your asses too.”

A lie. Naithea wouldn’t have made it out of the brothel alive if he hadn’t shown up just in time to knock Killian unconscious. Still, his words were enough to make the smiles on the soldiers’ faces falter.

“Surrender, Amira.”

Naithea smirked. “Never.”

The soldiers advanced, cutting through the thick shadows with their weapons until mere inches separated them from each other. Naithea and Alasdair spun, their swords held high, pondering their next moves.

“This is the moment when you share your plan with me,” Naithea whispered to her battle partner.

“My plans ended the moment I used that bucket of urine to save you.”

Great .

There were too many soldiers, but so had been the Fiend’s dogs. The thought of using her magic crossed her mind for a brief second. She could summon her magic to save her own neck; but with the wound Killian had inflicted, it was as if the monster within had fallen into a deep sleep.

“Cover my back.”

That was all she said before stepping forward and attacking.

The metal of her sword collided with that of her enemy. She felt the force the soldier exerted toward her to bring her down, how her boots slid through the mud threatening to betray her.

With no intention of giving up, Naithea kicked his stomach, knocking him back. She twirled the sword between her fingers, a feral gleam in her eyes. She forgot about the enemies fighting against her to surrender her to a heartless king, and the world reduced to that forest tinged with darkness and the soldiers in front of her. The sounds around her, the screams and cries of pain disappeared into the thick air.

Naithea lunged straight at the soldier. She swung her sword twice; first to the right and then to the left. She aimed downward, toward his bare stomach, but the soldier deciphered her intentions and intercepted her attack before the tip could brush his armor. She stepped back, and reaffirmed her grip on her weapon before attacking again.

She’d fight until dawn if that was what it took to win . . .

A lump rose in her throat as she noticed another soldier approaching. They were two against one, and Naithea was the one at disadvantage.

The soldiers approached and charged at her with no remorse for the woman they had known. Kneeling, she shielded herself with her sword held high above her head, which shook with a tremble, warning her that the blade wouldn’t be able to hold for much longer.

Naithea began to back away, looking for shelter, an escape. The tip of a sword slided down her face and, soon after, blood spilled from her cheek. Her muscles clenched as the laughter of the soldier drowned out her senses. All she could do was watch them advance toward her, the air of victory exuding from their pores even before the combat had ended.

“You’re finished,” he declared.

Despite her own fears and wishes, Niathea didn’t let weakness show.

A snarl crept down her spine, slithering through her bones. The soldiers seemed to hear it as well, for they shifted their gazes from one to the other to the smoldering shadows around them.

“What is . . .?”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. A wild, orange and black figure leapt forward with his claws bared, catching the soldier’s arm and dragging him back into the shadows until his screams disappeared into the darkness.

Naithea’s heart pounded within her chest. Not with fear, but with hope. With the sweet promise of salvation. As if deep inside her, she knew that the beautiful creature wasn’t out there to attack her, but to help her.

Her gaze met that of the remaining soldier, her legs trembling as her hands gripped the sword nervously. Without her magic, Naithea fed on that fear. She used it to her advantage, swinging her sword toward only one of her enemies—a pawn in a much bigger game.

Before the soldier could defend himself, the tiger re-emerged from the shadows and dug his fangs into his throat with great force. With one swift movement, the creature snapped his neck in half.

Naithea admired the tiger, holding her breath. Their gazes met with a sense of familiarity. The shadows around them dissipated until it was nothing more than a passing mist.

Just then, the screams began.

Something was draining her, slowly sucking her magic and her life.

The illusions around her began to flicker, showing the reality of the night and the forest. Her heart raced so wildly that she had to lean forward, fighting the pressure in her chest to keep from vomiting. Metal was still clashing, thoughts were still echoing in her mind.

Everything was too loud.

Get up , she commanded herself.

She rested her hands on the wet soil and tried to get up, pushing with all her might to stand upright, but her power . . . Her power was weakening her, and something was turning it against her.

A hand closed around her throat and lifted her off the ground with ease. Darcia struggled for air as she set her gaze on the black-eyed soldier who now offered her a sibylline look. His expression bore hints of confusion at the sight of her, trying to figure out something she wasn’t aware of.

The grip on her neck loosened instantly.

“It’s you,” he said.

Darcia brought her hands to her own throat and scratched his skin to get him to let go of her. But the soldier was strong, much stronger than Alasdair or Conrad. Stronger than anyone she had ever met . . .

When she tried to kick him in the abdomen, he dodge just in time before dragging her away from the commotion.

He was going to take her away.

Darcia tried to scream, to make Alasdair look at her one last time before she disappeared into oblivion. The soldier kept moving, his grip firm on her, even as her boots sank into the cold ground, trying to slow him down. She may be weak, defenseless, and yet Darcia descended her hand to her lower back; there, where the cold metal of the dagger caressed her skin.

She was tired of everyone deciding for her. Tired of letting the world hurt her over and over again . . .

And so Darcia would fight until she drew her last breath. Her fingers closed firmly around the hilt of the dagger as Alasdair’s words echoed through her mind like a reminder of her own strength.

If you really want to be free, you will have to be the one to dictate the course of your own story.

She owned her own decisions.

She was the mistress of her destiny.

Quick as the wind, Darcia pulled the dagger out of her back and plunged it into the soldier’s shoulder. The skin and flesh were hard to tear, but that didn’t stop her from pushing her other hand against the short weapon to cut deeper.

The hold around her loosened as he uttered a growl of repressed pain. Darcia dropped to the ground and her bones trembled inside her when his eyes, black as the abysm, turned to her; something between amusement and annoyance glowed in them.

He yanked the dagger out of his shoulder and dropped it to the soil, disappearing between the grass. The soldier’s face remained impassive as the blood gurgled from the wound and stained his clothes. He took a step forward, then another, and Darcia, still on the ground, crawled backward to keep her distance.

“That was very unfortunate,” he said. One step, two, three. Darcia struggled to get up again. “You, my sweet Meissa Boreaalinen, are coming with me.”

Willing to give her last ounce of strength to avoid such fate, Darcia leaned forward. She had to get up, to fight . . . Life had taken so much away from her already, but she wasn’t going to allow them to take her resilience as well.

Yet she wasn’t alone.

A sword cut through the darkness, its blood-covered edge caressing that sensitive spot under the soldier’s chin to make him look up and meet another set of boreal eyes that promised a certain death.

“Don’t touch her.”