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“Let me go,” I say under my breath.
He laughs loudly, alerting his chatting comrades that he’s got something they’ll want to see. I act quickly before they can turn around. My foot jerks forward, kicking him in the shin. He hisses at the sudden pain, and his grip loosens, allowing me to yank hard enough to free myself. But I overshoot. I pull too hard, fumbling toward the ground.
But instead, I slam into something solid and unmovable. A wall of granite muscle.
That presence can be felt before it is seen. Like a fog rolling over a mountain, thickening the air in your chest.
His hands curl around my arms to keep me steady as he stands me upright. And I don’t have to turn around to feel the violence dance around him. Because he stills behind me. Signs that cold rage boils under his surface.
“Who the fuck are you?” the braided-haired man spits.
Dessin’s next movements are swift and clean, rotating me behind his back. Safe. Guarded. I stand on my tiptoes to peer over his shoulder at the soon-to-be-dead man.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?” Dessin’s voice is relaxed and almost polite with his request for the dead man to repeat himself. He sticks his neck out in emphasis.
“She’s a—”
The jab to Braid Man is quick, sharp, fluid. And he’s on his knees gasping, choking on his own saliva. Dessin clutches his hand just under the man’s chin, yanking him upward. And it’s a terrifying sight to see. With one hand, Dessin holds my assailant above his head. Feet dangling like low-hanging fruit inches above the ground.
Braid Man’s throat gurgles; bubbles of saliva foaming at the corners of his mouth.
“Apologize before I cut out your tongue with a rusted knife.” His threat is a mountain falling from the sky, dropping down on the man’s back. It’s a storm ripping through the musty cave air.
The other men rise from their seats, hopping over the tables to aid Braid Man and attack Dessin with brute force.
And truthfully, I would be confident with the outcome of Dessin winning. But we don’t know the capabilities of the dark elven descendants.
They charge like a swarm of bees to defend their nest, and all I can hear is Runa’s voice shouting for them to stop.
He has to drop the man. We need to leave.
“DESSIN!” I scream at the top of my lungs, tearing from the depths of my stomach and scraping my esophagus on the way out.
The shouting of men and clattering of falling silverware fade into a slowing pace of confused looks and wide eyes. They stop themselves moments before they barrel into him. And it’s a moment of caution. The way you would step away from a lion when seconds before you thought you were petting a cat.
Their gazes flicker from him to me and then to each other.
“That’s right, assholes.” Runa shoves past me to stand between Dessin and me. “Prophecy is real. They weren’t scary stories to tell at night to scare little children.”
Scary? What is said about us that could be scary?
I look up at Dessin, still strangling Braid Man.
Ah, yep, that checks out.
“Put him down,” Runa barks.
I can only see the back of Dessin’s head, but if looks could kill…. He lowers Braid Man to the ground. Sobs and guttural choking sounds escape him as he fights to survive the attack to his windpipes.
The men and women gather around us, gawking as if they are seeing a living, fire-breathing dragon.
Accusations are thrown from all angles.
Impostors!
Not real!
Spies from the city!
