A Court of Silver Flames - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,195

thrust of Cassian’s sword, and Lanthys shrieked at each one, but Lanthys could not be killed. Only contained, Cassian had said.

And the Harp could open doorways—but not slay people. She ran for Cassian, finger readying on the Harp’s string to haul them out of there.

But Cassian’s eyes flared, and he yelled, “GET—”

The mist wrapped around his throat and hurled him.

Her scream shattered through the tunnel as he hit the rock wall, wings crunching, and fell to the floor. He didn’t move.

A laugh like a knife scraping over stone filled the tunnel and then Nesta was thrown, too, slamming into the wall so hard her teeth clacked and her head spun, breath whooshing from her as her fingers splayed on the Harp before she hit the floor.

But she’d landed near Cassian, and she hurried to turn him over, praying his neck hadn’t snapped, that she hadn’t doomed him by coming here—

Cassian’s chest rose and fell, and the mighty, primal thing inside her body breathed a sigh of relief. Short-lived, as Lanthys laughed again.

“You shall wish the blow killed him before I’m through with you both,” the creature said. “You shall wish you kept running.” But Nesta refused to hear another word, not as she knelt over Cassian, the only thing between him and Lanthys.

She had been here before.

Had been in this exact position, his head on her lap, Death laughing at them.

Then, she had curled over him and waited to die. Then, she had stopped fighting.

She would not fail this time. The mist pressed in, and she could have sworn she felt a hand reach for her.

It was enough to set her moving.

Drawing her sword in the same movement with which she shot to her feet, Nesta slashed a perfect combination.

Lanthys screamed, and it was nothing like what she’d heard before—this was an earsplitting sound of pure shock and fury.

Nesta hefted Ataraxia, settling her weight between her feet, making sure her stance was even. Unshakable. The blade began to glow.

The mist contorted, shrinking and writhing as if it fought an invisible enemy, and then it became solid, blooming with color.

A naked, golden-haired male stood before her. He was of average height, his golden skin sculpted with muscle, his sharp-boned face simmering with hate. Not a repulsive, awful creature, but one of beauty.

His black eyes narrowed upon the blade as he hissed, “That is not Narben.” The name meant nothing to her.

Nesta lunged, thrusting Ataraxia into eighth position. Lanthys leaped back.

Cassian groaned, stirring to consciousness as she held the ground in front of her.

“Which death-god are you?” Lanthys demanded, glancing between the blade and her. The silver fire sizzling in her eyes.

Nesta swung Ataraxia again, and Lanthys cringed away. Afraid of the blade.

That which could not be killed was afraid of her blade. Not her, but Ataraxia. Her Made weapon.

“Get in your cell.” Nesta advanced a step, Ataraxia pointed before her. Lanthys backed slowly toward his cell.

“What is that blade?” His golden hair swayed down to his waist as he backed away again.

“Its name is Ataraxia,” Nesta spat. “And it shall be the last thing you see.”

Lanthys burst out laughing, the sound like a crow’s cawing. Hideous, compared to his beautiful form. “You named a death-sword Ataraxia?” He howled, and the very mountain shook.

“It shall slay you whether you like its name or not.”

“Oh, I do not think so,” Lanthys seethed. “I rode in the Wild Hunt before you were even a scrap of existence, witch from Oorid. I summoned the hounds and the world cowered at their baying. I galloped at the head of the Hunt, and Fae and beast bowed before us.”

Nesta flipped Ataraxia in her hand, a movement she’d taken to doing with the Illyrian blades in idle moments during training. She’d seen Cassian do it often, and found that it dispelled any extra energy.

She hadn’t realized it was such an effective intimidation technique. Lanthys shrank back.

She prayed the Autumn Court soldiers coming down the path any moment would hesitate before the blade, too. Knew they wouldn’t. Not with Briallyn and the Crown controlling them.

“Which death-god are you?” Lanthys asked again. “Who are you beneath that flesh?”

“I am nobody,” she snapped.

“Whose fire burns silver in your gaze?”

“You know whose fire,” she stalled.

But it struck true, somehow. Lanthys’s skin drained of color. “It is not possible.” He looked to the Harp beside a stirring Cassian, and his eyes widened again. “We heard about you down here. You are the one the sea and the wind and the earth whispered of.”