I adjusted myself in the saddle and let my gaze drift to the underbrush. Brambles twisted beneath the trees like tangled fingers, and among them grew a line of pale-stemmed flowers, their silvery-blue thistles glinting faintly with dew.
“Lunethistle,” I murmured, more to myself thananyone else. “Used to make sleeping draughts.”
Erindor’s voice came from behind, low and wry. “You’re also acquainted with poisons?”
A tingling sensation spread across my cheek. “Only the sleepy kind.”
A pause. Then: “Good. I’d hate to find out you’ve been plotting my demise with flower petals.”
I smiled despite myself. “Well…not lately.”
I didn’t turn around, but I heard the breath he released, almost a laugh if he ever allowed himself one. The warmth lingered like the last glow of embers across my neck.
“This one’s fireleaf,” I explained gently, pointing beside us. “It only grows in scorched places. Some plants flower only post-fire.”
Erindor hummed in acknowledgment. Not stopping the tangent.
Then, in an instant, the woods shifted. The trees grew tighter, the air thinner. I couldn’t say when the change occurred, only that I felt it instantly. We were not alone.
Emerging into a clearing, a pale glade veined with moss and brittle leaves appeared, the sunlight filtering in through the branches above, thin and hollow.
And then came the whistle of arrows.
Erindor’s shout ripped through the stillness. “Down!”
Chaos erupted.
I barely had time to register the hiss of air before the first arrow buried itself in the tree beside me. Horses screamed, rearing in panic. Hooves tore through the brittle leaves. The soldiers drew blades, and steel rang. I hit the ground hard; the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. Dirt and bark gouged my palms as I stumbled. The second arrow thudded into the ground, missing my shoulder by moments. Then a third arrow flew past, this time closeenough that I felt the wind of it brush my cheek.
From the treeline, five figures stormed into view. Their clothes were a patchwork of hide and stolen cloth, their faces smeared with soot and painted with crude war symbols. One wore a necklace of teeth. Another had scars carved into his arms like tally marks. They bore mismatched swords, axes, and curved daggers. Marauders. Mercenaries. Killers.
One of them spotted me. He was tall, lean, his eyes hollow with desperation. He sprinted forward, dagger raised, a snarl ripping from his throat.
A leaden weight seemed to root me to the spot. My limbs were like waterlogged stone, impossibly heavy, refusing to obey.
And just as the man reached me, Erindor was suddenly there. Slamming into him with terrifying speed.
Their blades met in a clash of sparks. Erindor spun, fluid and precise, catching the man’s wrist and driving his sword deep into the space beneath his ribs. The man gasped once, then crumpled.
Erindor stood over him, breath tearing from his lungs in ragged gasps. “You don’t touch her,” he growled, the words forced past clenched teeth, a primal warning.
Another enemy tried to circle him. Erindor pivoted without hesitation, parrying high and driving his boot into the attacker’s chest. The man flew back into the underbrush with a choked wheeze.
He didn’t glance back at me.
He didn’t have to.
Alaric met another attacker head-on, his blade gleaming with clean precision. Bran, wild with fury, lunged for the man attempting to flank Gideon and sank his teeth into the raider’s thigh.
Gideon laughed mid-strike, his shield ringing as he blocked a blow.
Corren fought beside him with the grim calm of a veteran, his sword flashing in clean, efficient arcs as he cut down an attacker aiming for our flank. Tyren moved like a ghost through the trees, intercepting a raider who had broken off toward Alaric and cutting him down with a single, silent stroke. Lark stumbled early, his blade knocked from his hand, but he rolled free and scrambled for a spare dagger, as Jasira threw one to him from across the field with deadly aim.
She landed beside me with a dagger already in hand and a curse on her lips. “Stay down, Wyn!”
But past the fray, one mercenary stumbled, gravely wounded. Blood darkened his tunic, seeping through his fingers. He crawled away from the fight, gasping, dragging himself through the leaves like a wounded animal seeking refuge, before finally hauling himself against a tree trunk, spent. He wouldn’t live without help.
My heart pounded. My satchel shifted against my hip.
