Ami’s scream tore through the quiet like a blade.
Can I handle this? I asked Sahora and waited. I always waited. Her body was hers. Her life was hers.
Yes, she said, and the relief in it stung me.
Thank you.
I stepped forward like stepping into armor that wasn’t mine. This body was built on survival, and I felt it in her bones. Then I saw them, the threads that had carried me through battles and fate.
Threads led to Ami, her hands outstretched with protective magic; Cyrus on the ground, blood sharp in the air. The attacker hammered at Ami’s shield. The shield flashed, cracked, and Ami stumbled. Cyrus tried to rise and sank back with a gasp. The attacker lunged again.
“Stop,” I said it simply, like a command, and pulled on his thread hanging in the air around me. I didn’t know his name. I only saw the threads around him: fear, duty, conviction.
He ceased to move, still as silence, then slowly straightened and turned toward me.
I walked over and surveyed him, hands clasped behind my back. I circled him as he stood at attention, his thread tight in my hand.
“Kneel.”
He knelt in response.
I stopped in front of his face. He was shaking slightly.
“Look at me.”
Looking him in the eyes, the words rolled off my tongue. “I will allow you to live. But you will not return here. You will go back to your village with a message.” I wrapped his thread tightly around my hand. “Your Empress is returning. It is time to allow it.”
You’re letting him go? Sahora roared in the back of my mind.
Mercy will serve us well if we let it, I told her.
He nodded vigorously of his own accord. For a beat, he looked past me. I followed his gaze to Oliver.
I released him, and he ran off as fast as his shaking legs would carry him.
I want to come back, Sahora said, not holding anger behind her words. Just longing.
Okay, I told her, and let go of the thread pulling me forward.