Another came at my flank, screaming. I caught his wrist, twisted until the bones popped, and ripped the blade from his hand. I buried it in his gut and shoved him back, watching him fold over it before kicking him to the ground. He writhed once, then stilled.
A third lunged from the shadows, spear low. I parried, turned the point aside, and slammed my shoulder into his jaw. Bone crunched. He stumbled; I finished it with a sharp thrust to the throat. His eyes bulged as blood fountained over my boots.
The clearing reeked of iron and smoke. Steam hissed where blood struck the cold stone. Bodies sprawled in heaps, some twitching weakly, others already slack and pale.
We were holding them.
But barely.
“Behind you!” Gideon shouted.
I spun. Pendant burning hot in my pocket.
A mercenary lunged toward Wyn with a curved blade, raising it high.
I didn’t think.
I ran.
Too far to reach him in time. NO.
I threw my sword.
It whistled through the air like a scream, spinning once, twice, and then struck home with a meaty thunk. The blade punched through the mercenary’s ribs as he lunged for her, driving so deep the hilt slammed against his chest with a sickening crack.
He staggered once, blood already pouring from his mouth in thick ropes, eyes wide in surprise. Then he collapsed forward like a sack of butchered meat, the sword still buried to the hilt.
The pendant in my pocket cooled from its blistering heat, settling into a steady, lingering warmth, like an ember that refused to die.
Wyn stared.
I ran to her, yanked the blade free, and turned to cover her again.
“You all right?” I asked, voice harsher than I meant.
Wyn sat there.
Eyes wide. Mouth ajar.
Not in fear.
I watched the flush rise in her cheeks before she ducked her head for a moment, pretending to check Jasira’s bandages, like her hands weren’t shaking for an entirely additional reason.
Her gaze, a blend of startled relief and profound, wordless gratitude, held me captive long after the fallen man's final gasp.
Long enough for me to notice.
Gods, I noticed.
She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.
I didn’t leave her side. Not again.
Alaric shouted from the far wall, “They’re falling back!”
The mercenaries had retreated, slipping away into the rocks and ash, but not like routed soldiers. Like men who had done their job.
A warning. Not a victory.
