Elias says, using his magic to pull the vines protectively around him. They swell until they’re thick as trunks, hovering over us. “We could start a revolution of freedom for each of our islands. We’d be responsible for our island, and no one else.”
His conviction gives me pause; the confidence in his words and the way he squares his shoulders reminds me of Kaven. Of someone who perhaps once truly did have a sound idea, but who has lost themselves in their ideologies.
“You don’t want freedom.” I take a step forward as he appraises me with caution. “You want power.” Even without my magic, I will not stall. As I lift Rukan, I see in my mind’s eye all the blood this blade has spilt. I may be weak, but I am not helpless. I will defeat him.
The next step I take, wind rushes from my lungs and I’m jerked off my feet, reeling toward the wall from his levitation magic. Casem reaches up, trying to stop it from happening, but his body buckles, unable to summon the air in time. My back slams into a tree and I cry out as blinding pain tears through me. My shoulder shatters, cracking in a dozen places.
Vataea and Shanty are there to catch me, while Ferrick still hasn’t moved from the vines constricting him. His eyes are shut, and my heart seizes, thinking the worst. But then I notice the creases of concentration between his brows, and it dawns that he’s not hurt—he’s healing himself from the same poison Bastian’s fighting against. It’s something Casem is undoubtedly struggling with, too.
I look at Elias as Bastian moves behind him, though I’ve no idea how he’s still standing. It must be adrenaline alone that has him taking another swing at Elias, though the strike never lands. There are vines at Elias’s back within seconds, smacking Bastian in the jaw and winding tightly around him. He hits the ground with a pain so fierce that I grab my chest, gasping against it and my throbbing jaw.
As he struggles to get back onto his feet, body shaking, I realize three things:
First, there are enough of us to outnumber Elias. But because he practices mind speak, we need to keep him sufficiently distracted so he can’t call for backup.
Second, Bastian needs healing for the poison that’s clawing its way up his throat, threatening to overtake both of us at any moment.
Third, I know how to win this fight.
As Shanty tries to help me back to my feet, I grip her hand and squeeze it tight, slipping the bracelet from her wrist as slyly as I can manage. Her eyes flash with a warning to be careful, but she doesn’t ask questions or let on as I slip the needles tucked within it between my knuckles.
“You bastard.” Bastian, stubborn as he is, has his sword raised against Elias once more. He looks as he did with Kaven, rage in his eyes and his body poised to kill. His movements sway, and though there’s no way he’ll win, he refuses to back down, buying us time. “You’ll burn for what you tried to do to her.”
“After today, there will be no more trying.” Without lifting a finger, Elias knocks Bastian to the ground once more. Steel flashes as he draws a thin blade from his belt.
Fear crashes through me cold as ice as he ducks over Bastian, brandishing the blade. I rush to my feet, breathless, but I’ll never make it in time.
And yet it isn’t fear I sense swelling from Bastian. It’s pride.
Slick as an eel, he kicks Elias in the chest and draws a push blade from somewhere in his coat, ramming it into Elias’s hand.
Elias stumbles back, clutching his bloody hand to his chest. “You’ll die for that!”
Bastian casts me a fleeting, almost apologetic look and reaches to his side—to a satchel at his hip.
Understanding dawns the moment before I feel the pulse of my magic as it flares to life within him, white-hot and all-consuming. It’s fire in my veins, scorching through me until I’m on my knees, suffocating beneath it.
I try to take control of it; to open myself up to its familiar pressure. But the magic refuses to obey. Because it’s not me the magic rests within. It’s Bastian, and he has no idea how to wield it.
He clutches a shard of bone in his fists, coating it with Elias’s blood from the push blade, and I buckle. His muscles tense with determination,