Page 52 of Thorn Season (Thorn Season #1)

M y specter connected with Erik’s body and launched him into the crowd. I heard the low, gruesome thud as he hit the marble. Then my specter smacked back into me—violent as a punch—and I heard nothing. Just the roaring in my head. My own ragged breathing in my ears.

Distantly, I knew people were shouting, scrambling to tear through the exits as the guards tried to corral them. Quincy had crumpled in a heap, and Junius was stunned frozen in the guards’ arms. Carmen’s horrified gaze kept flicking from me to the space behind me.

I turned to see what she was looking at, and my knees nearly folded.

Keil was staring at me, eyes wide and mouth parted, a pained understanding finally settling on his face.

I could never be happy as a Wielder , I’d once told him. Not in the ways that mattered.

And here it was. The secret I’d been keeping. The root of every bitter thing inside me.

Keil shook his head, so much sorrow in his eyes. So much regret. No guards stood between us now. He took a step toward me.

Silence descended abruptly, and I whipped around to where Erik had landed. To where that coiffed blond head emerged from beneath the cape... and the king slowly rose.

Blood oozed down his temple. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side. He lifted his face, and the air went out of me. Because that was rage —raw, unbridled rage smoldering in his eyes.

And those eyes were fixed solely on me.

I staggered back just as Keil’s broad shoulders appeared before me. Positioned squarely between me and the king.

Erik’s fury sputtered—almost in relief —before it rekindled twofold. “ You ,” he growled.

The voices started up again, now mixed with cries of outrage. Carmen covered her mouth in disbelief.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Keil said, calm and determined. “I couldn’t sit back as you tortured that man.”

What is he doing?

If Keil took the blame for this, Erik would slaughter him. He would do worse than slaughter him.

I stumbled forward, ready to shove him aside, when Keil’s specter snapped around my waist. He squeezed tight, and my words broke on a gasp.

“Is this your empress’s famed hand of friendship?” Erik said, seething. “To plant a wild creature at my court? To demonstrate the baseness of your kind?”

The gentry piled onto his sentiment, all aflame with indignation. As if Quincy wasn’t still shuddering at the edge of the dance floor, his tunic gaping open.

Erik’s lip curled, smeared red from the blood. “I should have expected nothing less from Wielders.”

“Then I suppose this is on you,” Keil answered smoothly.

I reached deep for any thread of power to rip through Keil’s invisible hold. But after eighteen years of holding my breath, I’d exhaled against my wishes, with a rupturing force. Now my specter felt thin and quivering—a torn muscle still healing.

Erik straightened his jacket with his good arm and nodded to the guards. “Seize him.”

The guards pounded toward Keil, swords whistling free. But they were inexperienced against Wielders. Too confident.

Two dropped instantly, swords clattering at their feet. Another charged at him sidelong, and I couldn’t suck in the air to scream—

Keil’s specter wrenched me aside. He grabbed a fallen sword, swinging to meet the attack. Steel clashed; the guard heaved backward. Keil’s blade was still ringing as he twisted toward the onslaught—as more and more guards poured their efforts into the fight.

With a piece of his power still tethered to me—splitting his attention—I knew the blows from his specter came out stunted. Fell just short of driving the guards back.

But Keil wasn’t just a Wielder. He was a trained fighter.

Wherever his specter failed, his blade swiped with fierce precision—always going for the hurt, not the kill.

A slash to one guard’s knee. A wall of power to knock another back.

Again, again, again—body and specter working in brutal balance—until the guards’ blood splattered where Quincy’s would have pooled.

The nobles looked on, in fear and awe. And with each guard that fell, the flames in Erik’s eyes grew hungrier.

More guards rushed in from the grand foyer. One struck Keil from behind—a coward’s move that sent Keil’s blade skidding across the floor. His powerful body shuddered to block the next assault, and the power around my waist shuddered with it.

But he adapted quickly, striking with fists and elbows, ducking as steel whooshed past his face. He snatched a knife—the knife they would have used on Quincy—and his specter tugged me forward.

I’d barely taken a breath before his arm replaced that invisible hold. In one fluid movement, he pulled me in front of him and held the knife under my chin.

“Hold,” Erik commanded, and the room went still.

The guards who panted on the floor tried to haul themselves up. Those standing seemed grateful for the reprieve. Only the newer guards widened their stances, prepared for their turn against the Wielder.

But Erik didn’t give the order to attack. He said, his voice chillingly quiet, “Let the lady go.”

Keil’s breaths heaved hot and fast over my hair. His arm banded steel-hard around my waist. “Tell them to clear the way and I won’t hurt her.”

“I should have them kill you right now,” Erik snarled.

I inhaled. “N—”

Keil’s hand clamped over my mouth, cutting off my protest. I went to shove him off, but his pulsing specter curved around my arms, pinning me flush against him. He leaned toward my ear, muscles shifting against my back. “Please,” he murmured. “Let me do this.”

A whimper hitched in my throat. And with a stab of shock, I realized I would disregard everything my father had taught me. I would give Erik proof of my guilt—I would confess —if it meant saving Keil.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Ambassador,” Erik said. His cold focus hadn’t left the knife.

“Let’s not pretend, Your Majesty. We both know I possess the winning piece.” Keil brought the blade closer, and Erik actually winced.

I didn’t bother blinking my tears away; they spilled over onto Keil’s hand, and I let Erik see the truth in them. The truth of my begging.

For the second time tonight, the room hung off the king’s silence, awaiting his verdict. But there was no delight in his words now—only vicious loathing—as he said through his teeth, “Let him pass.”

The guards retreated.

Keil’s specter untensed but remained curled around me, a fluid precaution.

He whispered again, only for me, “ Please ,” before slowly removing his hand from my mouth.

When I remained silent, his specter peeled away altogether.

I quivered, hoping desperately that this would work, as he relocked his arm around my waist and pulled me backward toward the only open exit.

Erik began to follow but halted at whatever he saw in Keil’s face.

“I’ll release her at the gates,” Keil said. “You have my word.”

Erik barked a laugh that made the nobles flinch. “And what is your word worth, Wielder ?”

Keil just kept guiding me backward—past the terror-stricken nobles, past the wary guards, past Carmen, whose incredulous eyes were shot through with red.

“If you pursue us,” Keil said slowly, “her blood will be on your hands.”

We backed out of the ballroom just as Erik growled, “Hurt her, and I’ll have your head on a spike before the night is over!”

Keil towed me through the grand foyer and into the cool evening air. The arm around my waist tightened, and I gasped as he lifted me clean off the ground to thunder down the steps. As he set me back down for the walk toward the gates, reality hit me. I began resisting in his hold.

He lowered the knife to keep from accidentally nicking me. “What is it?” he whispered.

“You can’t do this,” I said, knowing it was far too late. But I had no other words. No thanks or apology could ever make it right.

Keil’s arm became an embrace. His head nestled low, his breath flurrying against me as he whispered into my ear. I began twisting toward him but didn’t get the chance to respond. Because the voices from behind grew louder, and Keil released me, shooting like a dart into the night.