Page 42 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons (Empire of Vengeance #4)

I drifted back to consciousness slowly, my mind struggling through layers of pain and confusion like swimming up from the depths of a dark pool.

The first thing I became aware of was warmth—not the gentle warmth of sunlight, but the flickering heat of a fire somewhere nearby.

The second thing was cold—a bone-deep chill that made my muscles ache and my teeth want to chatter.

I tried to open my eyes, but even that simple movement sent waves of nausea rolling through me. My head felt like it had been split open with an axe, and there was a taste in my mouth like copper and ash. Slowly, carefully, I managed to force my eyelids apart.

I was in a cave. The walls were rough stone that caught and held the dancing light from a small fire built near what looked like the entrance.

The flames cast shifting shadows that made the cave seem larger than it probably was, full of hidden alcoves and dark corners where anything might be lurking.

I had been laid on my back several feet from the fire—close enough to feel its warmth, but far enough away that sparks couldn't reach me.

Someone had been careful about that placement, thoughtful in a way that suggested.

.. what? Kindness? Or simply a desire to keep their prisoner alive and undamaged?

The thought of being someone's prisoner sent a jolt of panic through me, and I tried to sit up.

The movement was a mistake. Pain exploded through my right shoulder like lightning, so intense that black spots danced across my vision and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

My arm hung at a strange angle, and even the smallest movement sent fresh waves of agony coursing down to my fingertips.

Dislocated, I realized with the detached clarity that sometimes comes with severe injury. My shoulder was dislocated, probably from the fall. The fall...

Memory came flooding back in fragments. The battle in the valley.

Valeria's dragon attacking Sirrax, the sickening sensation of falling through smoke and flame.

Jalend's desperate face as he reached for me, his hand tight around mine before the weight of Sirrax's injured body pulled me away from his grasp, and the wrenching pain in my shoulder.

Then darkness, and the terrible certainty that I was going to die.

But I hadn't died. Somehow, impossibly, I was alive. Injured and captured, but alive.

Panic fluttered through my chest at the thought of Sirrax.

He’d turned, twisted in the air, his wings closing around me.

It was the only reason I’d survived the fall, but what had happened to Sirrax?

Was he even alive? Bleeding out somewhere from the wounds caused by Valeria’s dragon.

No, I couldn't think that way. Sirrax was strong, he would be fine. I wouldn’t let myself believe otherwise.

Fury exploded in my chest as I thought of the scheming backstabbing bitch.

When I got back to the university, I didn’t care what Jalend said, I was going to fucking kill her with my bare fucking hands.

The cold was becoming unbearable, seeping through my clothes and armour and settling in my bones like ice. Despite the pain, I began to edge closer to the fire, using my good arm to drag myself across the rough stone floor. Every movement was agony, but the promise of warmth made it bearable.

I had managed to close perhaps half the distance when I heard movement at the cave entrance. My heart hammered against my ribs as footsteps approached—measured, confident, completely unhurried. Someone who had no fear of me, no concern that I might pose a threat.

The figure that stepped into the firelight made my breath catch in my throat.

He was Talfen, that much was obvious from his build and bearing.

He wore a black skirt formed of leather strips that fell to mid-thigh, and over his shoulders was draped the strangest cloak I had ever seen—made entirely of black feathers that seemed to absorb the firelight rather than reflect it.

Around his neck hung multiple necklaces of dark metal and wooden beads, some carved with symbols I didn't recognize.

His chest was bare, revealing a torso that was lean and powerfully muscled, marked with intricate tattoos that seemed to shift and move in the dancing light.

But it was his face that stopped my heart completely.

White hair fell in elaborate braids shot through with dark strands, framing features that were achingly, impossibly familiar. High cheekbones, a strong jaw—it was Tarshi's face, Tarshi's build, Tarshi's exact appearance down to the smallest detail.

"Tarshi!" The name escaped my lips in a gasp of relief and joy so intense it made me forget the pain in my shoulder. He had found me somehow, rescued me from whatever enemy had taken me captive. Everything would be all right now.

He set down a waterskin near the fire and turned toward me, and that's when I saw his eyes.

They were the wrong colour. Not the deep black I remembered, but pale grey like winter ice. And there was something in his expression—a coldness, a distance—that Tarshi had never shown me. This man looked at me like I was a curiosity, a puzzle to be solved rather than a friend to be helped.

He spoke then, a string of words in what sounded like Talfen, but the accent was wrong, the cadence unfamiliar. I stared at him in growing confusion and horror, unable to understand how someone could look exactly like Tarshi but be so obviously not him.

"I don't understand," I said, my voice coming out as barely more than a whisper. "You're not... you're not Tarshi."

He tilted his head slightly, studying me with those cold grey eyes. When he spoke again, it was clear he didn't understand my words any more than I had understood his.

Panic began to claw at the edges of my mind. I tried to push myself upright, to scramble away from this stranger who wore my mate's face, but my injured shoulder made any real movement impossible. The best I could manage was to drag myself a few inches backward across the stone floor.

He moved with liquid grace, crossing the space between us in two quick steps. His hands caught my good arm and my injured shoulder simultaneously, and I screamed as fresh agony tore through me. The sound echoed off the cave walls, harsh and desperate.

He froze at the sound, his grip loosening immediately. For a moment we stared at each other—me wild-eyed with pain and fear, him with something that might have been concern flickering across his too-familiar features.

Slowly, carefully, he released my good arm and ran his hand gently up toward my injured shoulder.

I tried to struggle against him, to pull away, but the pain was overwhelming and any movement only made it worse.

His fingers probed the joint with surprising gentleness, and I could see understanding dawn in his expression as he felt the displaced bone.

He leaned back and raised both hands, palms out, in what I recognized as a universal gesture of peace. Then he pointed to my shoulder, which I now realized must look obviously deformed even to someone with no medical training.

"You want to help," I said, though I knew he couldn't understand the words. Something in his manner had changed, become less threatening and more... professional? Clinical? "You're saying you can fix it."

He nodded as if he had understood, though that was impossible. Maybe my tone had conveyed something, or maybe the situation was obvious enough that words weren't needed.

I studied his face, trying to read his intentions. He could have killed me easily while I was unconscious. If he wanted me dead, I would be dead already. And the pain in my shoulder was becoming unbearable—if he really could help...

"All right," I said finally, settling back against the stone floor. "Do it."

What followed was the most excruciating thirty seconds of my life. He positioned himself beside me, one hand on my upper arm and the other on my shoulder. I saw him take a deep breath, gathering himself, and then he moved with swift, sure precision.

The pain was indescribable—a white-hot explosion that seemed to tear through every nerve in my body.

I screamed again, unable to help myself, my vision going dark around the edges.

But then there was a wet popping sound, a sensation of things sliding back into place, and suddenly the agony was gone.

I could move my arm again. I could lift it, rotate it, flex my fingers without wanting to die. The relief was so intense it made me dizzy.

But relief quickly turned back to panic as I realized what this meant. I was healed, mobile, potentially capable of escape. I had to try, even if my chances were slim.

I rolled away from him and sprang to my feet in one motion, adrenaline overriding the lingering aches and pains from my fall. The cave entrance was only a few yards away. If I could reach it, if I could get outside and find somewhere to hide...

I made it exactly three steps before ropes of living shadow wrapped around my arms and legs, stopping me cold.

The darkness was like nothing I had ever experienced—not merely the absence of light, but something active and malevolent that seemed to pulse with its own alien life.

It held me completely immobile, suspended a foot off the cave floor like a fly caught in a web.

"Let me go!" I shouted, struggling uselessly against bonds that felt as solid as iron chains. "Let me go, you bastard!"

He stood slowly, watching my struggles with those cold grey eyes. There was no emotion in his expression, no anger or amusement or cruelty. He might have been observing an interesting insect for all the reaction he showed.