Crunch. His boots left deep indents as he made fresh tracks, carving a new path down the hill.
Suddenly, a stabbing pain lanced through his whole body.
Kael froze, a sharp gasp slipping through his lips. As his knees buckled, he collapsed into the snow, the pristine white turning crimson beneath him.
Blood. His.
He managed one word when he saw the dark form towering over him in the afternoon sun.
“Ryn.”
The light cast her long shadow over him. There was no sign of Sorian, or anyone living; the tower was a crater. Charred beasts and carriages sent up tendrils of smoke in the distance.
His shaking hand reached over his shoulder, grabbing onto the dagger embedded deep in his back.
It wouldn’t budge.
Her expression was cold, her chest rising and falling heavily as she stood over him.
“The gold, Crownsman,” she said flatly. “Where is it?”
Kael motioned weakly toward the inside of his tattered jacket.
Without a shred of care, Ryn ripped the pouch free, her movements jerking his injured body.
He groaned.
“This is why you killed me?” he rasped. “Crown’s gold?”
Ryn sneered. “Only you would think that, Kael. Take another guess, and I might let you live.”
Kael’s bloodied brow furrowed. He shook his head faintly.
“No clue? Martha—” Her voice caught. “She was my mother.”
“And now Ward...and everything...is gone.” She sighed, then straightened.
“The moment you entered Threadneedle.”
Kael let out a long, trembling breath. His chest barely rose.
“And for that,” she continued, her tone hardening, “you will die. By my hand. The gold”—she held up the pouch with a bitter laugh—“that’s just a bounty.”
She went to her white horse. Steam rose from its nostrils in the icy air as it pawed impatiently at the snow. As Ryn mounted, one foot in the stirrup, she froze at the faint sound of his voice.
“Wait,” Kael choked out, barely audible.
She paused, her hand gripping the saddle’s edge. She glanced back at him. Dismounting, she walked over, her boots crunching softly in the snow.
Pulling the Candlemakers’ tome from his cloak, Kael stretched out his hand. “Take this, Ryn,” he whispered.
“And take the knife out of my back, for Crown’s sake.”
Ryn glanced down at the Bible, its bloodstained cover stark against the snow. Slowly, she kicked it aside, sending it skidding across the frozen ground.
Her hand moved to the dagger's hilt.
“Remember the Candlemakers, Ryn,” Kael gurgled, his words wet with blood.
Her fingers tightened around the cold, wet handle. She let her palm linger for a moment before letting the knife remain, pushing it deeper with her next word.
“I’ll remember Martha,” she said gently but stripped of warmth.
Ryn stood over him in silence, the wind tugging at her cloak. She pulled the sack of gold from her belt and tipped it over Kael’s bloodied chest. Coins scattered across his body, glinting in the late day’s light.
Without another word, she turned toward her horse and mounted, spurring it forward. Snow swirled in her wake as she disappeared into the distance, leaving Kael alone in the silence.
Kael blinked, his vision swimming as he tried to lift his head; he stared right into the sun, a ball of white plasma that burned his eyes.
A faint crunch broke the stillness, and a figure emerged, black against the sky. Her steps were light yet purposeful.
“Sarah?” he whispered.
She knelt beside him, steady despite the cold.
“Don’t move,” she said gently, bracing one hand on his shoulder. With the other, she yanked the knife from his back in a single, smooth motion.
Kael gasped, pain lighting up his nerves.
“You’ll be okay,” she said tenderly, already wrapping a thick bandage around the wound.
He felt her pour hot liquid across his back; it seared like a brand. Then her hands moved again, pressing a flask of warm, bitter fluid to his lips.
“Drink.”
Kael coughed, the liquid burning as it slid down his throat. Sarah pressed her hands firmly against his wound.
“This time, you never left,” she said.
Fini.