A chorus of agreement rises from the nearby soldiers. Anger bubbles hot and fast in my veins.
They want my little bird, but they’ll have to get through me first.
I adjust my hold on my sword, familiarizing myself with the feel of it in my nondominant hand. Thank all the gods, I’ve beentraining to use weapons with either hand since I was young enough to pick them up. There are some benefits to growing up in a castle filled with soldiers.
My lips twitch as I appreciate the irony of using my training in the king’s courtyards to keep his soldiers from getting Wren.
And I will stop them, or I’ll die trying. There are no other options. Now that the soldiers have seen Wren and made their intentions clear, they’ve signed their death warrants.
My gut twinges, warning me to pay attention.
I trust the feeling implicitly—it’s always been right. Following its lead, I turn. And just in time. A soldier is charging towards me. I don’t recognize them, not that it matters.
I lift my sword, meeting my attacker’s weapon with a clash of steel. I grunt, shoving him back. A blue glow tinges our swords, and I draw strength from Wren’s nearby presence. I spin, bringing my sword down in an arc, and blood sprays as my blade finds my opponent’s neck. He’s dead before his body hits the ground.
One down. Countless more to go.
I glance over at Wren. Her eyes have cleared, and she’s staring at her flame-wreathed hands with determination.
“These are bad people,” she mutters. “They’re hurting innocents, and they want to hurtyou. Remember that.”
Drawing in a deep breath, she lifts her chin and raises her hands. The flames dance on the winter breeze. One of the Marked Ones next to her murmurs something too low for me to hear, and Wren nods. She shifts her stance, and then, as if she’s been using magic for her whole life, she twists her fingers. Blue light pulses, and the flames writhe, forming a sphere floating above her hands. It hovers, moving when Wren lifts her right arm.
She stares into the fray of soldiers at the foot of the mountain, takes a deep breath, and lobs her magic.
The fire sails through the air, joining a sparking orange sphere originating from the Marked One on her right, and it slams into a charging soldier.
An explosion of blue and orange fills the battlefield, the man’s cries joining the din of pain.
I can’t look away from Wren for long. Her mouth is pinched in concentration as she draws more flames from someplace within her, the wind whipping her hair all around. Fire circles her hands, and she looks like a goddess of old, like she belongs on the tapestries lining the walls of my father’s palace.
That connection within me, the one fated by the gods, sings. There is no doubt in my mind—this is what Wren was always meant to do.
Another soldier charges towards us, and I cut them down before they reach Wren. More soon follow, and they keep coming.
I’ve taken down nearly a dozen soldiers before there’s a tug in my chest. The insistent yank comes from deep within me, momentarily forcing my attention away from Wren to the forest beyond the mountain.
Silver eyes emerge first, followed by a sleek black coat and sharp claws digging into bloody snow. Relief surges through me, and a piece of me that has not been whole since we’d been taken into the mountain heals.
Thank the gods, you’re here, I murmur to Mist through our bond.
Even though we can’t speak through our forged connection, warmth floods my chest, and I know she’s just as relieved to see me. Now, with Wren behind me and my bonded familiar in my sights, I allow myself to fall into the killing calm that has resided inside me for as long as I can remember.
For years, I hated this part of myself. My mother is a stranger to me, but even so, I am certain the darkness inside me, the onethat delights in bloodshed, pain, and agony, is my father’s “gift” to me.
I used to abhor this part of myself because it meant that no matter how hard I tried, I’d never truly be able to separate myself from the king. I would always carry a part of him with me.
But now I will use his gift to defend Wren no matter the cost. There is no greater irony than the fact that my father wants Wren, and I will be the one keeping her from him.
Time and space have little meaning as I wade through the darkness. All I can keep track of, all I care about, is the gods-blessed with indigo curls. Nothing else matters; no one can break my concentration.
My weapon is an extension of my body. Cries of agony are a never-ending chorus. My sword collides with another, a vicious clash. Mist snarls ferociously. Our bond pulses, a living, writhing connection as we fight in tandem. A blue sheen coats my vision. Blood paints the snow.
At some point, clouds cover the suns. Snow starts falling, a white sheet blanketing everything in sight. The scent of copper lingers in the crisp winter air.
Still, the king’s soldiers come. Watchers, Protectors, Enforcers, and even a few Hunters. Their numbers seem endless as they stream out of the forest.
I continue fighting.
