“Hold the line!” one screams before a bear swats him into a tree so hard the bark splits.
The Blades fan out behind me, their armor singing with motion. I signal for some to break formation, dropping to join the defense alongside the forces of the Grove. The rest stay tight on my trail as I streak deeper into the forest.
The vine wall comes into view, and beyond it, I can see smoke rising from the village. My gut twists.
They’ve made it through.
Beside me, Orios’s eyes widen, his face hard as stone.
“Solena,” he breathes. Even through the noise, I hear her name on his lips.
I meet his gaze and nod once. That’s all he needs. He banks left, wings flaring wide as he dives toward the village.
I force my eyes forward, toward the lavender blossoms in the distance. Toward the clearing where Amara sleeps. That is where I should be. Where Ineedto be.
But the screams rip through me. Fear. Terror. Pain. Each cry cleaving me down the middle.
I grit my teeth, then growl, turning sharply, wings pinned back as I spear towards the village with Zyphoro at my side.
The vine wall burns, flames devouring it whole as smoke billows skyward, smothering the village in a choking charcoal haze. Light dies beneath it.
Bodies lie everywhere. Too many to count, the ground slick with blood, rivers spilling past the benches where we once sat to eat, pooling beneath an overturned pot by the hearth.
Some Tenders still fight, swinging weapons with shaking hands. Others flee into the trees, praying the forest will shelter them.
I have seen war. I have seen carnage.
But this scene. This massacre, will haunt me forever.
So much hate.
So much death.
So much blood.
Orios tears through Legion soldiers, hurling them aside, cleaving bone and flesh without slowing.
He hunts for Solena, every unfortunate fool who crosses his path cut down before they even scream. But the black, stinging smoke blinds everything.
It rises from an inferno at the center of the village, a conflagration that roars, spitting flame in every direction, tossing sparks that leap and catch and spread.
I land hard, shielding my eyes as heat lashes my face. Zyphoro drops beside me, and her hushed gasp cuts through the mayhem.
“Gods,” she breathes, hand flying to her mouth. I have never seen her look so horrified.
“It’s Ronin.”
There he stands, bound to a pyre in the center of the flames. Engulfed. Burning.
He does not scream.
His silence is worse.
For a heartbeat, I think him already dead, but his eyes are open, jaw clenched, and when they meet mine I move.
Wings snap wide, blasting wind that smothers the flames. Then I hurl clouds of smoke, choking what remains of the fire. Zyphoro does the same, dousing burning beams as sparks hiss and die beneath our magic.
I rush to Ronin’s side, tearing him from the pyre, hauling his charred weight over my shoulder. His skin, gods, his skin, but there is no time to think, no time to feel.
