I avoid looking into my father’s cold eyes, or I’ll fall apart. I focus on the rebels instead. One has hair as dark as night, and the other’s is crimson red. Like the blood I’m going to drain from them both.
“You’re a pretty one.” The black-haired male grins. “It’s a long boat ride back to the shore, but maybe you’ll make good company on cold nights.”
“Gods curse you,” I spit out.
They both laugh. “If you think running your filthy human mouth will save you, you’re wrong.”
“I don’t care if I’m saved.”
These Fae don’t realize what it means to be born here. To suffer Alyssium for decades. To walk hand in hand with death, even if only tending to it. There is no hope. Nothing but a long, cold wait for the After to claim us.
I accept what must be done. This was always going to be my fate anyway.
Which is why, even if the rebels see nothing more than a weak human making a final stand, I don’t back down. This is my family. My home. And I will defend it.
With my heart.
With this blade crafted from the heart of Alyssium as a gift to my mother.
With my rage.
Something warm churns in my chest as I accept the anger that swells. Hate is like love, Father always warned me. Unpredictable. Beginning with a spark and then spreading so quickly that there is no taming it. No containing it.
No controlling it.
A spark of rage flickers now, and I ignore my father’s warning, letting it grow in my chest until my veins are on fire. My blood prickles. My skin tingles. My hair dances in the wind. Every whip of the blue ends burns.
I’m going to kill them.
Gods, souls, and stars, help me find the strength.
They have taken my father, but they will not take my home.
The dark-haired male steps forward, taking measured steps because he doesn’t see me as a challenge. If anything, his eyes drift with a different intention as he pauses on where my cloak breezes open.
Measuring my breath, I do what Callum taught me. I don’t hesitate.
Instead of waiting for him to come to me, I start to move. I drive sure and strong with a sweep of the blade that he barely blocks before it slices through his shoulder. But it doesn’t get deep enough. Bone stops my sword, not giving as easily as the bags of hay from practice.
The rebel’s heartless eyes narrow. His stance widens, and his shoulders lock as he tightens his grip on his own weapon.
“You’ve been trained, girl.”
“Trained to kill you.”
He grins, but there is no amusement in it. Only the promise of death. Maybe that should frighten me, but it doesn’t. I made my peace with the After on my many trips to the shore. In my many nights spent standing beside a burning pyre. In a dark cave with no hope—only pain. Long before the rebels found our island.
The rebel swings, and I counter in a dance of blades. I manageto meet his every strike at first. Until he forces me back with his speed and strength.
Flirty strikes turn to killing blows, and I welcome them. This will end with their blood or mine, and I’ve got just enough fight to see it through.
The red-haired male moves next, taking aim when my blade is tangled with his friend’s. I squat before I lose my head, and they chuckle. Spinning, I aim for the dark-haired Fae’s unprotected leg and drive the blade in. It’s not deep enough for him to lose his footing completely, but he stumbles.
If he were human, it would take him down. But even without magic, the Fae are still stronger, more durable, and they heal faster.
With every spin, every slice, every block, they counter.
I weave in and out between them, avoiding my father on the ground, getting in cuts and jabs where I can. When I take a sword to one arm, I nearly lose my grip. But my bloody palm holds tight.
