Dozens.
They keep coming, an endless stream of armored figures emerging from doorways and alleys and gaps in walls. Forty. Fifty. More. The moonlight catches on their armor, turning them into a sea of silver scales—a dragon made of men, coiling around us on all sides.
"It was a trap," Emir gasps, his voice raw with the realization. "Theywantedus to come."
The cold certainty of it settles into my bones like ice water through my veins. We weren't meant to win this fight. We were meant to die here. Drawn out from the safety of the palace,isolated, surrounded. Slaughtered like the villagers whose bodies litter these streets.
The fresh guards crash into our line like a hammer striking an anvil, and suddenly everything I thought I knew dissolves into desperation.
A blade whistles past my ear—so close I feel the wind of it, close enough that I know if I'd moved a heartbeat slower, I'd be dead. I stumble backward, my exhaustion no longer something I can push aside or ignore. It slams into me all at once—the weight of every spell I've cast, every strike I've deflected, every second I've been fighting for my life.
My legs shake. My arms feel like lead. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes, mixing with the blood and grime that coats my skin.
I reach for my magic and find it sluggish, reluctant. The well that felt bottomless moments ago is suddenly terrifyingly shallow. I pull on it anyway, forcing lightning to my fingertips. The bolt that emerges is weak, flickering, barely enough to make my attacker flinch.
He doesn't even slow down.
His sword comes at me in a vicious overhead chop, and I barely get my dagger up in time. The impact drives me to one knee, the shock of it reverberating through my entire body. My wrist screams in protest. The bones feel like they're grinding together.
I try to rise, and my legs won't cooperate. They're trembling too hard, exhausted beyond their limits.
The guard raises his sword again. I see death in his eyes, cold and final.
Then Kaan's shadows slam into him from the side, sending him flying. He crashes into a wall fifteen feet away and doesn't get up.
"Stay close to me!" Kaan shouts, but his voice sounds distant, muffled, like I'm hearing it underwater.
I force myself to my feet through sheer will, my vision swimming. The battle has devolved into pure chaos. There's no formation anymore, no strategy. Just survival. We're scattered, isolated, each of us fighting our own desperate battle against an enemy that seems to multiply with every passing moment.
A guard lunges at Emir from behind. "Emir!" I scream, but my warning comes too late. The blade bites into his shoulder, drawing a line of crimson across his armor. Emir roars in pain and rage, spinning to drive his sword through his attacker's gut, but I can see the way he's favoring that side now, the way his movements have slowed.
Elçin is bleeding from a dozen small cuts, her armor torn in places, her movements no longer the fluid dance they were before. She's still fighting—gods, she's still fighting like a woman possessed—but I can see the exhaustion dragging at her, the way her sword arm is starting to drop between strikes.
Even Yasar looks haggard, his magic sputtering. A guard gets past his defenses and opens a cut along his ribs. Yasar snarls and blasts the man back, but I can feel the strain of it through our binding, can sense his power beginning to wane.
And Kaan—my beautiful, deadly Kaan—is holding off five guards at once, his shadows whipping around him in a defensive barrier. But even he can't be everywhere. Can't protect all of us. His face is drawn tight with strain, sweat streaming down his temples, his breathing harsh and ragged.
We're losing.
The realization steals what little breath I have left. We're actually going to die here.
That's when I see Zoran.
He's twenty feet away, separated from the rest of us by a wall of enemy soldiers. He's fighting three guards at once, hismovements still precise despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his body. He's always been the best swordsman among us—faster than Emir, more technical than Elçin. Even now, even outnumbered and exhausted, he's holding his own.
He parries a strike aimed at his head, the movement economical and perfect. Dodges a thrust from his left, pivoting on his heel. Brings his sword around in a horizontal slash that forces his third opponent back a step.
For a moment—just a moment—I think he's going to make it.
Then I see the fourth guard, emerging from the smoke behind him.
"ZORAN!" My scream tears from my throat, raw and agonized, but it's lost in the din of battle.
Zoran begins to turn, his combat instincts warning him of the danger, but he's a heartbeat too slow.
The guard's sword punches through the gap in his armor—that vulnerable spot just beneath the ribs where leather meets steel.
Time slows to a crawl. I see the shock bloom across Zoran's face, see his eyes go wide with disbelief. See his sword slip from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the blood-slicked cobblestones.
