Page 87 of The Prince's Sacrifice

Tor didn’t think, he bolted, sword in hand, prepared to fight anyone he came across, because he’d been heading for the baby, and he was terrified this meant their attackers were, too.

He needed to get to Cala a way no one expected, because all the pieces were sliding into place. It couldn’t be a coincidence that there was an attack on the same night that Tor broke outfrom the dungeons. He’d thoughtlessly assumed it was Nawila who had gotten him out—despite the fact that he’d expressly asked her not to.

He suspected the only reason he hadn’t been killed in his cell was because it was harder to blame all of this on him if he were dead in a dungeon. His mind flashed back to the soup, to how he’d lost consciousness soon after. He’d assumed he’d fallen asleep, but what if he hadn’t? Had they intended to come and collect him? Or had he played right into their hands by escaping and making it look like they’d freed him?

They needed to deal with him to make this work, though, and Tor prayed that he’d managed to go just enough off script that he was no longer playing into their hands. He ducked into the room on the second floor, dashed to the window, and flung it open. He looked out, judging the distance between them even as he flung out his magic to attach to the window frame.

And his magic… went. Tor sucked in a shocked breath. That was… not how magic worked once you were bound. And yet the rope of magic was unmistakably there. It was also unmistakably pink-tinged. Somehow, he was still able to do what an Extraordinary could do, but maybe he had only a Unremarkable amount of magic to do it with. Was it because he and Varex were twins? Had it left a loophole that Tor was able to exploit? He didn’t need anyone to tell him the pink was a bad thing, but it didn’t matter.

Tor had walked into the trap these people had set, but there was no way he was going to let anything happen to Cala.

He was cursing now that he’d ignored all those rumors about him being jealous of Cala and the fact that he wasn’t heir to the throne anymore. Tor had never expected to rule, and he’d always attributed the rumors to Fernila and her hatred of him. It had amused him that she’d been so blind.

The many, many ways that he was a fool were coming home to him now.

Tor had no idea how seriously he should worry about climbing a rope of magic that was going pink, but really, if it went blood red and killed him, he wouldn’t have to worry about falling, now would he?

He reached up and wrapped his hands around the magic and began to climb. Thankfully, it felt the same way it usually did, faintly warm, faintly pulsing, and all his. When he reached the window, he tapped on the glass.

He whistled as softly as he could. “Pamuna. Pamuna, it’s me.”

As he hung there precariously, he wondered again just how strong his magic was right now. He’d never needed to worry about that before, but it seemed like a significant concern right now.

The window was suddenly pushed back, and a terrified Pamuna looked out at him. She was holding a dagger, her face too pale.

“Is Cala all right?” he asked urgently.

Her eyes were huge, the pupils blown wide, her chest heaving.

He could hear the sound of fighting even more loudly now, but he didn’t think they’d made it into the room, or Pamuna wouldn’t be standing there staring at him like this.

Praise the goddess that at least some of the guards were doing their job.

And then he heard what was being shouted, muffled but clear enough: “For Prince Torex!’

Tor scoffed, even as his belly swooped. “It took me too long to figure out they were setting me up. I thought someone from my troop orchestrated my jail break.” Tor met her eyes. “I swear to you, I’d never let anything happen to Cala.”

Pamuna met his eyes. For an infinite moment, they stared at one another, and just as Tor began to worry that she was going tostab him with that dagger or hit him over the head, she stepped back.

“I know you wouldn’t.”

Tor climbed into the room, pulling the magic back into him. It came, but it felt… sluggish? That had never happened before, but clearly nothing about today was normal. There were two dead guards on the floor by the door. It looked like they’d fought. One had been stabbed in the gut, the other in the neck.

Voice thick, Pamuna said, “One of them—one of them tried to open the door. The other fought him and managed to get the door locked again, but his wounds were too severe.”

The loyal one appeared to have locked the door and got a large wardrobe pulled in front of it before succumbing to his wounds. Tor’s lips tightened. He was definitely going to make these asses pay for everything they’d done today.

Cala was crying, Tor realized, and Pamuna scooped her up from her cradle and arranged her in the sling that was already attached to her body. Tor had witnessed a few of those days himself, where Cala didn’t want anything except to be in your arms and walking around—and while you wouldn’t think a baby was that heavy, by hour twelve, it was more work than you thought. Cala’s arms and legs flailed from either side of the sling as she settled against Pama’s chest.

The door rattled ominously, making Pamuna flinch. The sound of fighting intensified. Every crash at the door suggested the guards weren’t winning.

From out the window, he could still hear periodic cries of “Fire!” or “Foe!”

Wildly, Tor wondered if there was actually a fire, or if it was just a distraction.

The crashes against the door were coming rhythmically now, and the wood, solid as it was, was only going to last so much longer.

Goddess, protect Cala.