She gives me a little salute before sneaking out of the brush and into the deep shadows beyond the camp's edge. I follow without any more discussion. We've been running jobs together for five years now, and we've been best friends much longer than that; I trust her more than anyone, and we don't need to waste time on words when we can practically read one another's mind.
We swing wide, beyond every light of the camp. When Briar stops behind a small outcropping of rock, eyes on her targets, I keep going, positioning myself to sneak up on the dragon's cage from behind. I take a minute to size things up from several different angles so I can properly calibrate the distance between myself and that cage—always a challenge with my sight.
Briar waits until I signal that I'm confident to make my next move before she makes her own. She leaves her bow and arrows behind, along with her bag of stolen goods, and she makes her steps more exaggerated, more tired, while hugging her arms around herself.
She'll be playing the role of the lost, defenseless traveler, it seems.
As she stumbles toward the guards, I creep closer to my own target, pausing once I'm some twenty feet away from the cage and waiting in the shadows until the moment is right.
The guards tense when they first spot Briar…at least until she steps fully into the light of one of the nearby lanterns. Half-blindor not, I can easily see the rigidity slipping from their bodies. Undone by her beauty, which is still striking even after a day of rough travel. Men are pretty muchalwaysundone by her—particularly when she plays the role ofsomething delicate and in need of help. As if she really needs to be rescued by their manly might.
Fucking idiots.
“Could you spare a drink for a thirsty traveler?” I hear her purr as she tucks a lock of hair behind her jewel-studded ear.
The men considerher request, exchanging glances. One of them actually goes forhis waterskin. The other onesteps closer, full of swagger and misplaced confidence.
“What's a beauty like you doingout here alone?” he asks.
Briar watches his handsliding away from the handle of his sword—the last of his good sense leaving him.
“Just looking for you,” she says with a wink.
The soldiers exchange aself-satisfied look. I swear to the gods, they're actually preening as Briar continues to flirt, as if there's no doubt in their mind that she’s being genuine. As if they think the Ashlands are full of beautiful women desperate to cuddle up with a Mouren soldier.
I swallow down a bitter laugh.
So many of them have no clue how life really works outside the gilded walls of their precious kingdom.
They're distracted by their ridiculous fantasies, though, and that's all that matters.
Once they're fully enveloped in Briar's game,I silently dart forward, moving into the shadows of the cage.
The dragon lifts its head a few inches as I approach. Its golden eyes are unfocused, blinking slowly. Its tapered snouttwitchesas it tries to place my scent. Panic skitters through me as itopens its mouth?—
It makes no sound.
For now.
Steadying myself, I open the vial of bloodroot oil and toss its contents over the roof of the cage, sprinkling the wood as evenly as I can, even though I’m not tall enough to truly see what I’m doing.
I consider just tossing the lantern next, letting it shatter against the wood; bloodroot oil is flammable enough that any stray ember would do the trick. It would be easier than trying to be precise.
But I'm also trying to be somewhat discreet.
So, I find a stick and dip it in the vial instead, then carefullyguide it into the lantern’s flame. It's annoying how many times it takes me to line up these simpletasks, thanks to my lack of proper vision. Spatial awareness—just one more thing I took for granted before that awful night that took so much from me.
After several attempts, I finally manage to turn the stick into a small, lit match.
I glance over to check on Briar, to make sure she's ready to make a run for it, and Ifind her pinned between the taller soldier and a pile of supply crates. Fury fills me at the sight of the soldier’s hand trying to slide its way under her shirt.
Briar doesn't flinch. Doesn'tbreak character. Thecharming smile doesn't leave her face, either, even as she whips aknife from the gods only know whereand stabs it straight into the man'sarm.
Which isoneway to distract them, I suppose.
He stumbles back,howling. She aims a kick into his groin, and as he doubles over in pain, she adds insult to injury by grabbing the sword at his hip and whipping it from itssheath.
His companionlunges for her, but she only spins and slices toward his head—all while offering him a charming smile as well. He falls backward, just barely avoiding a quick death. Briar pins him to the ground with a boot on his chest, pressing the stolen blade into his stunned, wide-open mouth.
