The captives are gone, swallowed by the dark edges of the camp, hiding out from the violence.
Arwyn drags me until my back hits the base of a cracked angel statue far on the other side of the path, a safe distance from the fight that Samick pushes out further.
Arwyn plants himself in front of me, a sentry of stone and winter.
I look around the bulk of his left side, and I see the general. She’s come closer now, wandered towards the smell of blood and weapons.
Her armour glimmers red-black like Rust’s blade, her hair braided tight. Her eyes are alight—not with joy, but with something hungrier, colder.
Behind her stands a towering male whose face is cast in shadow. He’s watching the fight over her head, unmoving.
The general doesn’t speak. She watches every strike, every block, every hit, every kick, and she watches until the fight slows.
Rust is breathing hard now. His mouth is bloodied—thick black blood dripping down his chin and staining his teeth. His nose runs dark, his chest heaving.
Samick moves with the same deliberate control as before, though there’s a thin line of white blood streaking down from his eyebrow.
Rust swings wide again—and there’s something desperate in it.
Samick catches the blow, twists his blade down, and sweeps Rust’s legs out from under him. He hits the ground hard, the impact sending up a puff of grass and soil.
Samick doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, his glass sword driving down—not to kill, but to pin.
The glinting tip of the blade digs into Rust’s collarbone and holds with an unspoken threat.
Silence crashes over the camp, like a violent wave drowns a shore.
Every fae freezes. Even the flames seem to steady, as though the world itself leans into us.
Samick stands over him, chest rising slow, his expression unreadable.
Rust’s breath rasps. His red eyes roll toward the general, then back to Samick.
For a long, suspended beat, no one moves.
The general lures in Samick’s gaze, just by standing there, watching quietly. His jaw feathers—tight, reluctant—then he tugs back a step.
The decision ripples through the crowd like a wave of shifting leathers and rolling jaws.
Rust coughs, and a dark splatter hits the ground—thick, oily. He pushes himself up, his gaze burning into Samick, then he spits again, the tar-black saliva steaming on the cold dirt.
Without a word, Rust turns and stalks away into the darkness beyond the campfires.
The onlookers part for him.
Samick lowers his blade, the faint frostlight along its edge dimming. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his shoulders shifts—a loosening before he turns toward Arwyn, toward me.
I don’t move.
I’m parked where Arwyn dragged me, knees drawn up, dirt on my palms. The pain in my shin throbs in time with my heartbeat, but the thick cramping sensation in my belly pins me.
He must’ve knocked me in the middle when he slammed into me and threw me off my feet. But it was such a blur, a shock, that I hardly remember more than a solid wall of ice and then hitting the path.
Samick turns his cheek to us and looks at the general.
Mika slides down from her headstone. She glances once at Samick—then at me. Her face is pale, her eyes luminous with something soft.
Shark turns and heads back to the campfire.
