Page 62 of Wench

Marian sets another arrow, her voice rising with piercing clarity.

‘Last chance, Lieutenant,’ she seethes. ‘Leave and tell my father my rotting corpse was all you found of me.’

Aengus’s face twists into a scowl as he draws a long blade from his side. ‘How dare you presume to give me orders! I’ll have you?—’

Marian doesn’t give him the chance to finish. She turns and the next arrow flies with purpose – not shaped by rage, but calculation. It arcs through the meadow and strikes the iron lock at the centre of the creature’s cage. The force of it shatters the latch with a shriek of splintering metal.

For a moment, nothing moves.

Then the creature bursts forward in a cyclone of fury. The door of the cage is torn from its hinges and lands on the crossbow-wielding guard with enough force to snap bone. The Fellhart’s scythe-tipped hooves rip flesh from armour in ragged strips. Teeth sink into his throat, and blood fountains high, catching the light like scattered garnets.

There isn’t even time for the man to scream.

Its antlers rake through the air and its many eyes gleam with a terrible, knowing intelligence. Feathers flare from its wings in a wave of black brilliance, and when it roars, it is a dirge for every chain that ever bound it.

Marian watches, her breath caught somewhere between awe and horror, as the beast descends on Aengus like vengeance incarnate. He tries to run away, but the Fellhart knocks him aside with a whip of its antlers, piercing through the centre of his breastplate before flinging his body across the field. He lands with a dull thud, his insides spilling out over the metal. Marian can’t bring herself to look away as the Fellhart descends upon him, teeth meeting bone as Aengus’s ribs crack louder than his final scream.

The clearing smells of moss and blood and death.

Marian stands frozen, the bow still raised, watching as the beast lifts its head from the gore and turns its many eyes on her.

Blood drips in long ropes from its jaw as it steps toward her, stopping just short of her reach. It lowers its head and sniffs; its breath gusts warm against her neck.

With the gentleness of a barn cat, it brushes its gore-streaked nose against her shoulder.

Marian lets out a shuddering exhale, but refuses to flinch as its earthy, metallic, breath ghosts against her flesh. It presses its brow against hers, and in that breathless instant, something settles inside her.

Gratitude, ancient and solemn, radiates through her entire body.

In one motion, the creature turns and sprints into the trees, feathers trailing behind it in a streak as the forest parts for its passage.

Marian stares after it, stunned, until a pained grunt pulls her back to the moment.

She whirls toward the net, rushing forward on instinct. The combined iron-ore strands shimmer with heat, burning where they touch fae skin. Lox is nearly unconscious, his jaw clenched in agony, lips pale. More of his skin is exposed than not, every uncovered inch blistered and raw. Will’s face is a mask of fury and pain, their hands bloodied where they’ve tried and failed to pull the iron from Lox’s shoulder, searing their own flesh in the process.

Marian drops to her knees. ‘Hold still,’ she says, her voice steadier than she feels.

Her fingers move with grim familiarity. One by one, she loosens the bindings, palms stinging. The scent of their charred skin clings to the back of her throat.

When the last hook falls free, the net collapses like a shed skin.

Without a word, Will drags Lox up by his arms, but when they stumble, Marian braces herself under his other arm. The exposed patches of his chest glisten with burns and bruises, but at least he’s alive.

For now.

‘We need to move,’ Will grits out, shouldering more of Lox’s frame.

Marian nods. Her limbs shake under Lox’s weight, but she doesn’t falter. They walk as one, three shadows slipping through the forest – one burning with pain, one braced by bitterness, and one held together by a thread of fragile, reckless hope.

When they finally see the lights of Elswyth, Lox is unconscious, his breath whistling thin and uneven.

The moment they pass through the woven arch of the outer rim, a flurry of voices rise to meet them.

Allen is the first to reach them. His expression pales the instant he sees the way Lox sags between them.

‘What happened?’ He replaces Marian beneath Lox’s arm.

‘Poachers,’ is all Will says, surprising Marian.