[THIS STORY WILL BE TAKEN DOWN ON SEPTEMBER 30, 2024]
He had hunted me, captured me, and locked me in a tower.
Season 3 'Of Crows and Thorns'
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While in RISING, Tabitha discovers something peculiar that may assist Nelle in her plan to escape the...
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Fear that I wasn't going to be able to cut through the rope around my neck—the lesson I expect Graysen was trying to teach me—soured the pit of my stomach and made my heart rap an erratic beat.
Please, please, please...
The dagger had been forged by Zrenyth himself.
Ancient, savage power raked across my palms and fingers, crackling down my arm, and raising all the fine hair on my body. It reverberated right through my very being—wild, dark magic. Cruel. Merciless. Willful.
Its misty, shadowy form wavered in the air like steam coming off a hot pool at the foothills of a snowy mountain. As I brought it to the rope collaring my neck, I felt a tugging like opposing sides of a magnet pulling at one another.
I sawed the blade back and forth, careful of the angle, making sure the blade wouldn't pierce my flesh.
I knew with growing despair, with every second that passed, that I wasn't going to slice through the braids of twine.
Penn said in her soft way, a regretful note in her tone, "Nothing can cut through it. Only a Crowther can."
My heart sank.
She held out one hand—in the other she was holding the other two daggers. I assumed she'd collected them while I was fixated on Zrenyth's blade.
My fingers tightened around the hilt as I lowered the blade from my throat.
I can try again to attack her—
And I suppose my desperate thought was written all over my expression because her lips pressed into a firm line and she gave me a slight shake of her head from side to side—no.
My shoulders sagged.
What was the use?
As I handed the dagger over and she plucked it from my grip, a knock came from the bedroom door.
Penn and I shared a curious look as the other woman tucked Zrenyth's blade back into her pocket. I hurried across the sea of carpet, velvet beneath my bare feet, toward the door, wondering who it could be. As I reached for the door handle the rope cinched tighter around my throat.
Hellsgate!
I took a reluctant step back, and the constriction around my neck eased, the pinch of pain ebbing away.
Penn pulled the door wide, and standing behind it was the youngest Crowther.
Ferne stood there with a stack of neatly folded clothes in her arms, partially backlit by the sunlight flowing through arrow slits in the outer tower walls. Her black hair was swept into a loose side ponytail, a white ribbon binding the silken locks together. Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip as she shifted her ballet-shoe-clad feet nervously.
