Thorns between us

Eight: Alone

The smoke was real this time.

We crested the last hill and there it was.

Outpost. White tents. Banners.

And a pyre. New wood. Dry.

Priests were already waiting.

Lirael stopped the cart.

“This is it,” she said. Low. “One shot, Prince.”

She didn’t look at me when she said it.

Then she walked away.

Orders ended here.

_“She left us,”_ the voice said.

“Good,” I said.

The priests came.

Four of them. Holy iron chains in their hands.

Old one with the brand in front.

“Off,” he said.

Lirael’s elves cut my bonds from the cart.

But not my wrists.

Not my ankles.

They dragged me out.

My boots hit dirt.

The priest with the brand looked at my eyes.

Gold. Black veins.

“Demon,” he said.

“Prince,” I said.

He smiled.

“We’ll see which one you are.”

They put new chains on me.

Holy iron.

It burned.

Worse than the elves’ iron.

This was made to hurt things like me.

It ate into the black under my skin.

I didn’t make a sound.

They started dragging me toward the pyre.

20 priests.

8 elves watching from the treeline.

No one was going to help.

_“Now,”_ the voice said. _“Break them.”_

“Not yet,” I said. “Wait for the wood.”

They chained me to the pyre.

Wrists. Ankles. Neck.

All holy iron.

The old priest walked a circle around me.

Sprinkling ash.

Muttering.

“By ash and oath,” he started.

“By light and law. Let the rot be cleansed.”

The others joined.

Low. Monotone.

The torch came out.

This was it.

_“Do it,”_ the voice said.

“Yeah,” I said.

I stopped fighting the fire.

I let the thing in my chest out.

It hurt.

Like the vines in the Elder’s grove.

Like dying again.

The black under my skin surged.

Up my arms.

Into the chains.

Holy iron screamed.

The priest stopped chanting.

“What—”

I pulled.

The chains didn’t break.

They melted.

Where my skin touched them, they went liquid and ran down like wax.

Hissing on the wood.

The priest threw the torch.

I caught it.

Bare hand.

It went out.

“Run!” someone yelled.

Too late.

I was already off the pyre.

Bare feet on ash.

Burns on my legs.

Didn’t care.

A priest swung at me with a staff.

I broke his arm.

Another came with a knife.

I took it and put it in the wood.

The elves didn’t move.

Lirael was watching from her horse.

She didn’t draw.

Smart.

I didn’t go for the trees.

Not yet.

They’d expect that.

I went for the tents.

Smoke. Chaos.

Priests scattering.

No one could chant with me in their camp.

I grabbed a waterskin.

Dumped it on my burns.

It helped.

A little.

_“They’ll follow,”_ the voice said.

“Let them.”

I cut a horse loose.

Jumped on.

No saddle.

Behind me someone shouted.

An arrow hit the tent post next to me.

I rode.

Straight through the outpost.

Knocked over a brazier.

Fire caught the canvas.

Let them burn their own pyre.

I didn’t stop for miles.

When the outpost was gone, when the shouting was gone,

I slowed the horse.

Forest again.

Dark.

Wet.

Smelled like marsh.

I slid off.

My legs gave out.

The burns were bad.

Holy iron leaves marks.

Black was creeping out of them.

Healing me.Hurting me.

I sat against a tree.

Chained to nothing.

Free.

Alone.

_“We did it,”_ the voice said.

“We did it,” I said.

No Dionne. No elves.No priests.

Just me.

And the tug in my chest.

Faint.

West.

Maybe real.

Maybe not.

I closed my eyes.

Not to sleep.

To listen.

If she was out there, I’d find her.

If she wasn’t, I’d burn the kingdom down until I did.

The horse snorted and wandered off.

I didn’t call it back.

I stood.

Burns and all.

And I walked.

West. Alone.