I clamber backward, my knees hitting the headstone behind me. It tilts, the old stone groaning under my weight. I try to scramble over it, but the tether pulls taut.
Then Arwyn drops the rope, and I fall.
Sight is stolen from me, it’s all a sudden whirl of darkness and crimson light, blending and spinning together, until I hit the earth, hard.
My backside drags down the harsh stone, tugging on my tightly fastened sweatpants.
I kick my legs, fingers gritting into the soil, as I drag myself back—and once I’m free from the snag, I flip onto my side and look ahead, expecting to see the chalky black sword coming down on me.
But Rust doesn’t charge at me.
Arwyn has chased ahead to block him.
He wields a weapon, a short, curved blade that glows faintly, like moonlight trapped in quartz.
In one fluid, vicious motion, Rust’s black blade slices upward.
Arwyn blocks it, the two weapons locking with a snarl of light and sound. The impact sends a vibration through the earth beneath me—
And just as it does, Samick has spun around, his back to the general, and has charged into a run for us.
I back myself into the headstone behind me. The rough edges bite into my spine.
Gasping, my breath fogs in the chill. My shin throbs—bandaged, oiled—and it feels like it’s pulsing with its own heartbeat.
Arwyn, sword raised, pushes back against Rust’s downward strike. Sparks scatter across his face.
But I’m not safe.
Only a row between Rust and me, he could jump it, distract Arwyn for the quickest moment, and that will give him the second he needs to reach me.
Fuck that.
I scamper to my feet and push into a run for the path, towards the familiar soft face of Mika still standing on the headstone.
I make it two steps before a flash of frost comes from my right.
Samick barrels into me, hard—and I’m thrown off my feet.
I hear myself cry out, a strangled, shocked sound, as the path comes rushing up at me.
I land on the coarse gravel, the world spinning, dirt in my hair, the coil of pain in my knees as they strike down.
My hands slap to the path—and I throw a furious look up at him.
Cold, his eyes flick over me, impersonal, indifferent—then he’s gone.
He charges at Rust, and his sword is a flash of ice through the warm campfire air.
I blink, and it’s all changed.
Arwyn is on me again, his hand fisting in the back of my jacket, and he drags me away from the fight, scraping me over gravel and onto the cold grass.
Samick and Rust blur together, white and black, frost and ember, until I can’t tell them apart.
The air between them seems to warp, bending around their weapons. Each strike echoes like thunder muffled by soil.
The fae press closer. Their eyes shine like a thousand tiny fires. Their excitement is not human; it’s fierce, predatory. Some hiss encouragement. Others whisper names. I see teeth glinting, sharp nails shivering.
