But there was no time to think.
A man wearing the Crimson Sigil emblem charged at me from the side, blade raised, teeth bared behind a damaged iron helm. I spun, drawing my dagger in one motion. Our blades met with a sharp clang, the impact jarring my shoulder. He was fast—faster than I expected—but he didn’t fight with discipline.
He fought withfury.
He slashed again, aiming for my ribs. I ducked low, swept my leg, caught him off balance. He snarled and swung downward, slicing through the edge of my cloak as I twisted beneath his strike.
I lunged upward, dagger aimed for his side—but he caught my wrist, twisting it with brutal force.
Pain flared down my arm, my magic stuttering, refusing to rise fast enough. He knocked me back against the crumbled stone and raised his sword?—
“Ashe!” Dorian’s voice rang out.
Acracksplit the sky.
BOOM.
Lightning forked from the clouds like a spear thrown by the gods.
It struck the man mid-step, igniting his body in a burst of searing white light.
He crumpled into a smoking heap at my feet, steam rising from the scorched ruin of his armor.
I stared, chest heaving.
The storm had answered—but I wasn’t sure it was mine.
Within seconds, the battlefield fell silent.
Where just moments before the air had screamed with arrows and fire, now there was only the crackle of dying flames and the soft moan of smoke curling into the sky. The outpost—once filled with the sounds of life, then death—now stood still.
Empty.
The villagers had vanished, ducking into the remains of huts and storage cellars. They were still here—I couldfeelthem, huddled behind broken walls, holding their breath.
But the men in the sickle-marked armor… they were all on the ground.
Some had died by sword. Others by magic. A few had been torn down by dragons who refused to wait on command.
We had defended the outpost.
But the cost was still bleeding in front of me.
I sprinted toward Cordelle, who was slumped against a broken wall, pale but conscious, his breathing uneven. The arrow in his shoulder jutted high, blood soaking the side of his tunic.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, dropping to my knees beside him.
“Did we win?” he asked, voice light with pain.
I didn’t answer. I just gripped the arrow firmly and yanked it free in one smooth, brutal motion.
He hissed through his teeth but didn’t scream.
Dorian knelt beside me, already handing me a small metal case—one of the field med kits we all carried. I dressed the wound quickly, pressing the bandage hard to slow the bleeding, Cordelle gritting through every movement.
Only once he was stable did I look up—and see the blood dripping from beneath Dorian’s own armor. It stained the hem of his tunic, seeping into the ground unnoticed.
“You’re hurt.”
