Fifty-Seven

Jordan

I writhe on the frozen ground, trying to make sense of the world. Graves are still all around me, and I hear faint commotion in the distance. I’m still on Ambrose grounds. A fir tree that looks older than the Order blurs into the sky above me.

“Quell?” The word comes out cracked. I struggle to turn, but moving makes my body feel like it has split in two. Is she alright? I try to lift myself but collapse, and the last moments I remember come back in a rush. The Dragunhead set me up. He sent me to Beaulah without backup, knowing she’d try to kill me when I tried to stop her. He wanted me out of the way. Even if that meant dead.

The throbbing ache in my chest is still wet and warm around the base of the dagger. The blade isn’t pushed in too deeply because, when I felt what was happening, I shoved away. Still, it feels like there’s a log in the center of my chest, and every time I shift, it turns into a razor.

I hold breath in my chest and try once more to hoist myself up, to get a better idea of where I’ve been taken. Upright, with my back against a headstone, I can see more clearly. The stone walls of Dlaminaugh tower over me, no more than a few hundred paces away. I peer around for my brother. I could have sworn he grabbed me. But there’s no one. I feel my pockets for any elixirs I might have on hand. Something for pain, or healing cuts, anything that could help. But I find nothing. I am going to die here. Alone.

I picture Quell’s face. I want her to be the last thing I see. Tears come. I don’t fight them.

Every person in the Order I gave my loyalty to has let me down. Beaulah. Darragh. Now the Dragunhead. My chin hits my chest.

I did everything right.

And the Order stabbed me in the back.

I rest my head back, letting myself feel whatever this chaos is. As I replay the past several weeks in my mind, a prick of something unfamiliar blooms inside. Parts of me that have been riddled with holes my entire life feel like they’re finally filling in.

And then I close my eyes and let myself relive the final moments of the raid on the Unmarked house. The child we found had seen magic. I swallow, remembering, still able to feel the chill that rose on my arms when I told my men to clear the perimeter.

As I approached the small bed, my foot nudged the child’s stuffed bear—like the one Yags used to drag everywhere. I stood in that little bedroom and drew the cold to myself. Shadows thrashed in one hand, and I held the bear in the other. Recitations ran through my head of protocols and drills, expectations. I could hardly breathe. But as I watched their little chest rise and fall, the rules didn’t matter.

I laid the bear beside the child.

And snuffed out my magic in a tight fist.

Then I left the house.

And said nothing of it to anyone.

I couldn’t sleep or eat, my training was a constant voice in my head, bashing me, that I couldn’t escape. It was the Dragunhead’s words, ironically, that helped. Dig deep in the heart, rely on what I know, and trust it.

Memories come in a flood. Diminishing Beaulah’s ranks at the inn last night. Attacking my own men. Cheating, lying, stealing for my brother when we were little because that’s what it took to protect him.

Disloyalty.

And yet, it feels…good.

More tears come as I glare at the spot on my chest where my Dragunheart pendant used to rest. It was all meaningless. The Dragunhead’s position, his expertise, his experience—none of it made him worthy of magic. His betrayal today proved that. And the brotherhood. Most of them are just more pawns on a chessboard.

The Order is a game of power. One I never wanted to play.

None of the titles I’ve earned make me worthy of magic. My choices prove who I am. It is a seed of a thought I had so long ago, an inkling I dared not fully feel. But it’s as true as the bleeding Sphere.

Magic could do so much good in the world if it weren’t so feared. I think of Quell and Knox. I’m not sure what the answer is anymore. But forcing people to erase parts of themselves isn’t it.

Magic deserves to be preserved. It’s part of who we are as Marked people.

But the Order can burn.

I try again to stand, putting the brunt of my weight on the headstone. But it’s no use. I lie on my side that doesn’t ache, trying to stomach the pain. I need to get to Quell. I have to know if she’s okay. A horse whinnies. Pounding hooves come to a screeching halt right before me. I blink, trying to make sense of the rider’s face. And a person with windblown red hair who I’ve never seen before stares back at me.