A Day for Dead Saints (Testaments of the Forsaken Book 1) by Ryan Kirk

Author:Ryan Kirk [Kirk, Ryan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2026-03-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Kill Your Friends

Why refuse to lie?

It’s simple. A liar cannot be trusted, and in battle against the enemy, you must be able to trust the person fighting beside you, as they must be able to trust you.

After all, their lives are in your hands, as yours is in theirs.

— FROM THE SAYINGS OF CAELEN

The dream of a full breath was a distant memory. When Veynar tried to inhale, dust filled his nose and his lungs refused to expand. An enormous amount of weight lay atop him, crushing his ribs. He was trapped, arms and legs splayed out, pinned by what felt like a small herd of cattle. There was no leverage to be had, no muscle that could push him free.

His heart pounded as he suffocated, unable to move, unable even to cry. Never had he been so helpless, so immobile. In the darkness his imagination ran free, untethered from reality, and Malric’s head blinked, his frown of confusion turning into a scowl of accusation.

Fear flooded his body and caused his limbs to twitch, but not even the strength of panic could free him. He was crushed and dying, slowly squeezed into the earth like one of the ants on the stone walkway to the halgard underneath Malric’s unforgiving boot.

A deep voice groaned in his ear and there was movement, a shifting of pressure that increased the weight on his ribs. They creaked like old tentpoles bending under the force of a summer’s gale, threatening to crack. More movement, then another long groan as muscles that weren’t his trembled. Enormous timbers shifted and finally, finally, he could inhale and force breath through lungs desperate for the taste of air.

With breath came tears too long restrained. His body had remembered, even as his spirit had pushed aside the weight of loss. He was still alive, fate mocking him with every indrawn breath.

A grunt above and the weight eased more. Light appeared, so close he could crawl to it. The strength of the gem still flowed through his limbs, and he pulled at his right leg, still trapped beneath the rubble. It slid free and he crawled, belly scraping against the floor, until he was out.

He flopped onto his back and stared at the sky, dimly remembering there’d been a roof overhead not that long ago.

“Help,” croaked a voice.

Veynar stared at the sky a moment more, then worked his way to his feet. Everything hurt and his side burned, but nothing was broken.

He had no weapons, though, nothing to help his savior trapped underneath the debris.

Imagine a short sword in your hand. Focus on every detail you can remember.

Which was easy enough. How many days of his life had been lost as he obsessed over the care of the short swords his father had gifted him? He knew their curve, weight, and design better than he knew his own face. He swore he could feel them in his hands even now, and as he imagined it true, power spread from his core and down his arms into his hands.

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