2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

His back to me, only the sight of the blood running down his skin told me he was alive.
And it was enough—it was enough that I detonated.
I winnowed to the two guards holding twin whips.
The others around them shouted as I dragged my ash arrows across their throats, deep
and vicious, just like I’d done countless times while hunting. One, two—then they were on
the ground, whips limp. Before the guards could attack, I winnowed again to the ones
nearest.
Blood sprayed.
Winnow, strike; winnow, strike.
Those wings—those beautiful, powerful wings—
The guards at the mouth of the cave had come rushing in.
They were the last to die.
And the blood on my hands felt different from what it had been like Under the
Mountain. This blood … I savored. Blood for blood. Blood for every drop they’d spilled
of his.
Silence fell in the cave as their final shouts finished echoing, and I winnowed in front of
Rhys, shoving the bloody ash daggers into my belt. I gripped his face. Pale—too pale.
But his eyes opened to slits and he groaned.
I didn’t say anything as I lunged for the chains holding him, trying not to notice the
bloody handprints I’d left on him. The chains were like ice—worse than ice. They felt
wrong. I pushed past the pain and strangeness of them, and the weakness that barreled
down my spine, and unlatched him.
His knees slammed into the rock so hard I winced, but I rushed to the other arm, still
upraised. Blood flowed down his back, his front, pooling in the dips between his muscles.
“Rhys,” I breathed. I almost dropped to my own knees as I felt a flicker of him behind
his mental shields, as if the pain and exhaustion had reduced it to window-thinness. His
wings, peppered with those arrows, remained spread—so painfully taut that I winced.
“Rhys—we need to winnow home.”
His eyes opened again, and he gasped, “Can’t.”
Whatever poison was on those arrows, then his magic, his strength …
But we couldn’t stay here, not when the other group was nearby. So I said, “Hold on,”
and gripped his hand before I threw us into night and smoke.
Winnowing was so heavy, as if all the weight of him, all that power, dragged me back.
It was like wading through mud, but I focused on the forest, on a moss-shrouded cave I’d
seen earlier that day while slaking my thirst, tucked into the side of the riverbank. I’d
peeked into it, and nothing but leaves had been within. At least it was safe, if not a bit
damp. Better than being in the open—and it was our only option.