Shadow Touched

60. GREY

I take in the scene before me with detached interest. Truthfully, now that I've given into the Gloaming to the Darkness inside me, I feel much like I did the night I had Thimble Milk. Light, carefree, euphoric. And most importantly, unstoppable.

I hear Solditch and my father's conversation. I feel the tension in the room. The pulsating fear emanating from the gilded gentry is so soft and pathetic that no one dares stand up for a King they claim to love.

Though rationally, I know that I—Prince Greyling, Heir to the Atheccan throne—care deeply about the pain being caused. I worry intensely about the safety of my father, my best friend, and my people—the Shadows, which have now coalesced into a wall of Darkness around my essence—drown those worries. Devour them. Until all I feel is power and rapture—except—

Except when Solditch's attention falls on Naima. When he speaks to her, when I hear the hatred in his voice, when I sense how strong his desire to hurt her is, something within me, some inherent power, burns away the dark's ice-cold grip. A moment of clarity overcomes me. I try desperately to regain control—to push through and escape. I do everything I can to get back to her.

Though it shames me to admit it, I watched with smug glee as Solditch's sentry—Bones—broke formation and stabbed Finch, ending their fight. That he used Naima's discarded dagger only added to my delight.

The feelings of malevolence I experienced off and on towards Finch now consume me. Or they did until Naima screamed. The sound of her pain, her terror, drew me back to myself almost completely. For five seconds, my brain was cleared of the Gloaming's fog, leaving me overcome with horror at all that has happened.

And then the Shadows rushed back in. I would have welcomed the reprieve they offered, the lack of all feeling, had Solditch not made his move on her.

Every time I have tried to push through the Shadows, it has been like walking through tar. I have clawed my way through their sticky, all-consuming power. Always coming out exhausted from the sheer effort.

There is no wading when Solditch wraps his gnarled fingers around Naima's throat. No fight to be had. I bolt through the Darkness like an arrow. My path is sure and deadly. I can feel my determination burn through every Shadow, melting them into wisps of nothing.

"Naima!" Her name tears from me. The taste of it on my lips pulls me through to the light.

Breathless and full of righteous rage, I lean forward and pull a sabre off the nearest Shadow-Touched as I storm through their ranks.

"Let her go," I demand through clenched teeth. The rush that comes with pulling through the Shadows has weakened me. It shows as I brandish my weapon, my arm shaking from the effort.

"Oh, little prince," Solditch tuts at me, his hand holding tightly to Naima's slender throat. "You're even more pathetic than I thought."

She scrambles as he tightens his grip on her. She scratches at him, her legs working to steady themselves on the smooth ceramic. He squeezes tighter, causing her beautiful silver eyes to double in size, her full mouth opening slightly as she loses air.

I move to attack, but another Shadowed steps forward, grabbing me by my hair. His grip is tight.

I fight against him, leveraging his weight against mine to throw him over my back. No sooner am I rid of him than another steps forward. Dead-eyed and powerful beyond belief, this one—a woman—backhands me so hard my neck snaps back.

A muffled whimper escapes from Naima. Our eyes connect momentarily. She blinks at me and then looks away. I follow her gaze and see Finch on the ground, Solditch's man, Dove, above him, raining down blow after blow.