Page 112 of Harbinger

“Kieren,” I sob, coughing as my lungs fill with smoke. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I can’t see him anymore, but I want him to know I’m here.

Flames lick my boots, and then—

Steel rings out.

A body hits the ground hard enough to shake the earth beneath me.

Another scream cuts short.

Through the haze, a dark figure surges forward. The flames throw his shadow long, stretching and warping it until it looks inhuman. Metal flashes in the firelight, and hope punches into my chest so hard it hurts.

“Bishop …” I rasp, but the rest burns away in my throat.

He moves like the fire isn’t there. Like the men aren’t there. Like the only thing that exists is me.

One of them charges him with his sword raised. Bishop sidesteps and drives his blade straight through the man’s chest. There’s no flourish, no hesitation—just the sickening certainty of the strike. The body collapses at Bishop’s feet.

His gaze darts to the flames climbing my legs, now calf-height, and his expression tenses. He lifts his eyes up to mine, and for a second, everything disappears. I don’t feel the icy lick of flames through my pants. Don’t smell the sickening stench of burning flesh. There’s only the determined glint in Bishop’s eyes.

My heart lurches as another man lunges at him. Bishop turns too late, distracted by me, and steel bites into his shoulder. He grunts as blood soaks his sleeve.

“Get him!”

Bishop answers by ripping the sword free and smashing the hilt into the man’s face. Bone cracks, and he staggers back as Bishop slashes his throat. He kicks the body aside and keeps moving toward me.

The bartender backs away, eyes widening. “You’re too late,” he shouts, trying to sound brave even as his voice shakes. Bishop doesn’t slow. The bartender holds up his hands. “It’s already—”

Bishop cuts him down mid-sentence.

The last man breaks and runs.

Bishop lets him.

Silence crashes down as suddenly as the violence erupted, broken only by the crackle of the fire and my ragged, desperate gasps for air. My eyes water as the acrid stench of burning fabric fills my nostrils. White-hot heat creeps up my legs. I yank at the ropes, but they hold.

“Arden.” Bishop rushes toward me.

I can’t answer. I can hardly see him through the smoke.

He shrugs off his tunic as he approaches, firelight illuminating his bare chest and the patterns mapped across his flesh. They glow faintly, lines intersecting and branching.

He steps into the pyre.

Flames curl around his boots and lick up his legs, snapping hungrily at his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just kicks at the burning logs, shoving them aside like unwanted guests.

“Bishop … I …” I cough, something wild flaring in my chest.

He reaches up and slices through the rope binding my wrists with one clean stroke. My arms collapse uselessly at my sides, and I sag forward. Bishop catches me before I fall into the fire.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs, pulling off my cloak and tossing it to the side. He guides my arms into his tunic, pulling it over my head to cover my ruined sweater. “I’ve got you.”

He lifts me, and I lock my arms around his neck, press my face into his chest, cling.

“Kieren,” I whisper. “Please. Kieren.”

Bishop stiffens. “In a moment.”