“No,” I whispered. “That’s something worse.”
The silence thickened.
Then, from deeper in the ruins, came the unmistakable sound of boots scuffing stone.
We weren’t alone.
The air snapped. A sharp gust, followed by the barest scrape of leather against stone.
“Incoming!” Alaric barked.
An arrow screamed through the air and shattered on the stone floor where Wyn had been standing a heartbeat before. Shards skittered past her boots as she dove behind a fallen column.
They descended like carrion birds through the ruined arches, shadows in rusted iron and piecemeal mail, cloth wrapped tightly around their faces. Four of them, or more, moving like trained predators. There was no shouting or flourish, only the low rustle of boots on moss and the sound of drawn steel.
“Mercenaries!” Gideon roared, blade clearing his back with a snarl of metal.
The clash happened quickly, without warning.
Gideon slammed into the first one like a battering ram, blade raised high. His sword met flesh with a wet crunch, the bone splitting. The man screamed, clutching the ruin of his shoulder, before Gideon twisted the blade free and drove it into his throat. Blood sprayed in a hot arc across the stones.
Alaric was already mid-duel with a second. His movements were sharper, more elegant, with years of drills behind each of his swings. He feinted, then spun low, his blade slicing through the back of the man’s knee. The mercenary collapsed with ashriek, and Alaric’s sword punched through his spine with a sound like breaking bark. He did not scream again.
A knife whipped past my ear.
I turned to see Jasira clutching her forearm, blood leaking through her fingers.
“Get back!” I growled, stepping in front as another figure rushed toward her.
Wyn was already moving. She dragged Jasira behind a crumbling altar and tossed a pouch from her satchel. It hit the ground and burst with a sharp crack, golden powder erupting like fireflies. The mercenary staggered, eyes seared blind. Wyn didn’t hesitate. She slashed upward with her dagger, catching the man across the arm.
I lunged forward, intercepting another man mid-swing. His axe whistled inches from my ribs. I dropped low and drove my blade into his thigh. He screamed, and I twisted. Blood poured down his leg, gushing onto my boots. He stumbled, still howling, so I rammed my hilt into his jaw. His teeth cracked audibly. He dropped with a choke.
A blur to my right; young, fast, reckless.
I turned too late. His short sword raked across my arm. The pain flared hot, but I welcomed it.
I gritted my teeth, slammed my boot into his gut, and grabbed his arm before he could recover. I pulled hard and drove my elbow into his nose; it crunched inward with a fountain of blood. His scream never came; I grabbed the back of his head and slammed it into the hard stone before him. Then twice over, and he went limp.
The ruin echoed with shouts, heaving breathing, and the wet clang of steel finding bodies.
Alaric let out a sharp breath, his blade now slick to the hilt. Bran had one of them pinned, jaws buried in his side, tearing.Flesh gave up with a sickening rip. The mercenary shrieked, gurgled, then was silent.
Three bodies lay motionless across the broken floor. Blood pooled thickly around the base of the altar, already soaking into the moss.
Only one remained.
He backed toward a broken column, panting, his eyes wide above the blood-smeared wrap on his face. His sword hung loosely, blood dripping from a shallow cut along his thigh.
“Don’t move,” I snarled, stepping over a dead mercenary.
The man raised his hands, trembling. He turned as if he was about to run.
But I was faster.
I slammed him into the pillar, blade pressed to his throat. His head cracked hard against the stone.
“Erindor—” Wyn’s voice behind me was shaky, pleading.
