The Raven Flame [The Crown Saga III] (First Draft)

Cursed Beads of Blood

Tarkan's powers dug deeper into the ground, bringing me upsettingly far away from everyone still stuck above the surface, leaving them at the mercy of Pangea's traitorous hands—a traitor whose word I'd trusted as if it had been my mother's like some fool.

Beware of the people you trust. One face among them may not be who you think they are.

The Grand Seer had warned me, yet I'd thoughtlessly let that caution fade and confined it to the darkest corner of my mind like a lurking shadow.

The light from the hole above slowly faded, the clammy darkness swathing us in endless night.

"No!" I screamed, struggling against Tarkan's firm grasp. "Go back! Go back, Tarkan! We can't leave them!"

An intense, bright light suddenly shot through the darkness, blinding me until the harsh rays faded to a bearable glow. Alia's rugged face came into view, her skin stained by cuts and bruises, her brows knitted, eyes filled with desperation, and her nostrils flaring as if she was exerting herself to her limits.

"Keep going, Calix!" she shouted as she confined the light to a sphere no bigger than her head. "We must get her as far away as possible. Leave nothing to chance."

Tarkan's grip on me tightened again. His entire body went almost rigid, but he didn't stop going. In fact, it felt as if his previously wavering determination had settled.

A suffocating lump lodged in my throat, stealing whatever voice I had left, even my breath.

What was going on? Why were they running away with me instead of fighting? Why wouldn't they fight?

"Put me down, Tarkan," I hissed, twisting my head as far as my aching body would allow me.

From this angle, I couldn't see much—barely even the tip of his nose. Sweat clung to his sand-dusted hair, his eye looked swollen and discolored, and his royal skin was smeared with brown blood. His jaw seemed tense as he glanced back at me.

"Can't do that, Wildcard," he merely said, turning again to direct his gaze forward.

I clenched my teeth, blistering heat winding around my nerves and waving into my cells. "Put me down, Tarkan, or so help me; I'll—"

"You'll do what, exactly?" Tarkan snapped, his eyes still firmly fixed ahead as small lumps of dirt flew past us. "You've exhausted your powers, lost too much blood as it is, and you can barely move your arms. So, humor me. What will you do?"

He was wretchedly right in his assumptions. The skin along my arms pinched a bit, and my muscles seemed to hum, but that was about all I could feel. They weren't searing as they should've been with the injuries I'd sustained, nor did pain shoot through them each time Tarkan's grip on me shifted.

If I'd been standing, they would likely hang limp down my sides. However, my fingers could still twitch a little if I concentrated hard enough. Thus, I hadn't lost them. However, I would need time to recover without a healer—time we didn't have.

"Go back," I hissed, writhing in his arms like a cat.

Tarkan growled, tightening his grip further. "Stop it, Willow. You'll gain nothing from this but reopening your wounds. We're not—"

A pained groan interrupted Tarkan as I thrust my knee into his gut. I hadn't had enough space nor strength to do any proper damage or make him let go of me, but it had been damned satisfying to prove him wrong.

"Cursed blood, Wildcard," he hissed, twisting his head to meet my stern eyes. "Stop struggling, or I'll tie you—"

His eyes suddenly widened, and his mouth snapped shut. "Spirits," he muttered. "Hold on, Alia."