The talkative assassin spits a mouthful of blood at Locke’s boots in response. “The queen herself gave the order. Down with the bastard abomination. She will never be allowed to rule Vanir, no matter what prophecies say otherwise.”
Sam growls low and dangerous. The man pinned beneath his massive paws actually pisses himself in terror, shaking so violently I’m not surprised by his silence.
“You will not live to see another sunrise,” the mouthy assassin sneers, apparently too stupid or too fanatical to recognize how precarious his position has become.
“You’re right about not seeing another sunrise,” Locke agrees with chilling matter-of-factness. “But she will live to see many, while you won’t.” He doesn’t even blink as he drives his sword through the first man’s chest in one clean, efficient motion. The blade slides between ribs like it was always meant to be there. The would-be assassin’s eyes go wide with shock before light fades from them entirely.
Sam doesn’t hesitate when the other man opens his mouth to scream for help. The sound is cut off abruptly as Sam’s sharp teeth clamp around his throat, and with one swift motion, it’s over.
I don’t look away, and I don’t allow myself to react with horror or disgust. I can’t afford such luxuries. I’m no stranger to carnage and death. I’ve seen enough violence to last several lifetimes, and I’ve caused my fair share of it too.
These men came here with the express purpose of killing me. They didn’t know me personally, had never been harmed by me, yet my life meant absolutely nothing to them. They were following the orders of a zealot who sees my very existence as athreat to her power. Their deaths were not just inevitable, they were necessary. Such a waste of life, and for what? Because of what I am, because of who I might become, because of prophecies and bloodlines and ancient fears.
Their blood pools beneath their bodies, seeping into the dusty earth of the village square. I swallow hard, forcing my legs to remain steady and my expression to stay neutral.
Locke turns to address the terrified villagers who have begun to emerge from their hiding places, his voice carrying clearly across the square. “We’re here on direct orders from the king himself. These men attacked someone under his personal protection.”
No one responds immediately, but several villagers scurry away, and I can only assume they’re going to fetch whatever passes for local authority to deal with the bodies.
“Leave them where they lie,” Locke tells Rue curtly. “Someone else can clean up the mess.”
He sheathes his sword with practiced efficiency, gives me a brief but searching glance that seems to catalog my physical and emotional state, then mounts his horse in one fluid motion.
“The barkeep gave me directions,” he announces. “Galin lives on the outskirts of the village, where the forest begins to reclaim the land. Let’s move immediately. There may be more of them watching, waiting for another opportunity.”
Rue raises an eyebrow as he helps me back into my saddle, his touch gentle despite the violence we’ve just witnessed. “Well then. No fuss, no cleanup, no unnecessary drama. That’s how you handle assassins, I suppose. Charming as ever, our dear Locke.”
Sam shifts back to human form without ceremony, unbothered by his nakedness or the blood still staining his hands. He grabs the nearest clothing from his pack and yanks it on efficiently, not looking at me directly. When he mounts hishorse, I can feel his residual anger pulsing through our bond like a living thing.
Rue’s hand lingers on my elbow as he ensures I’m secure in my saddle. “Let’s ride, sweet Esme. Galin awaits.”
We ride away from the village in tense silence, but none of us looks back at the carnage we left behind in the square. My heart continues to pound, my ears still ringing faintly from the assassin’s final scream, but my resolve has only strengthened.
I am so incredibly tired of feeling defenseless, of constantly relying on the men around me to protect me when I know damn well I’m capable of fighting for myself. The magic that was ripped from me, the power that should be mine by birthright, I need it back. Not just to survive, but to become who I was always meant to be.
So, I ride forward with grim determination. I ride toward power and answers, toward the trials that will either transform me or destroy me. Either way, I refuse to run from my destiny any longer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ESME
As the village of Stonehearth continues to fade behind us, we follow a narrow, winding path that leads deeper to the edge of Kasamere Forest. My mind keeps replaying the assassination attempt in vivid, unwelcome flashes, the spray of arterial blood, the casual efficiency of Locke’s blade, the wet sound of Sam’s jaws ending a life. I refuse to let this cause some kind of PTSD. I can cope with what I saw, I’ve witnessed worse. I have to keep reminding my brain of this until it sticks.
“Your thoughts are loud enough to scare away every bird within a mile radius,” Rue observes, nudging his horse closer to mine. Gone is the singing troubadour, now he’s all business, focused and alert. “They’re practically screaming anxiety into the forest air.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” I reply, but the lie sits heavy and obvious on my tongue.
“No, you’re absolutely not fine,” he counters gently, “but that’s precisely why we’re making this journey. Galin has the answers you need, the guidance you’ve been seeking. Or at least we hope.”
The trees around us grow progressively denser and older as we travel deeper into the forest. Their massive trunks are easily wide enough for three full-grown men to stand shoulder to shoulder, and their gnarled branches reach toward each other overhead, creating a natural cathedral of living wood. The forest feels alive and my skin prickles with recognition. I don’t feel danger, there’s no fear, it’s just something deeper, I can’t put my finger on. Something in my very blood responds to this place, as if I’m coming home to somewhere I’ve never been.
Sam rides in contemplative silence behind us, still radiating waves of tension through our bond. His wolf remains close to the surface of his consciousness, hackles metaphorically raised at the lingering scent and memory of those who dared try to harm me. I reach back through our connection, sending waves of calm and reassurance his way, but his emotions remain stubbornly tangled with protective fury.
Locke leads us confidently to a fork in the forest path, and without any hesitation whatsoever, chooses the narrower trail, one that appears to wind directly into the very heart of the woodland.
“Well, we didn’t even need a GPS to get here. You don’t even have a map,” I say, breaking the heavy silence that has settled over our group.
“Not sure what GPS is but the barkeep in the tavern sent us in this direction, he gave clear instructions,” Locke replies without turning around to look at me. “He also said something rather cryptic, that we would find Galin’s dwelling if and only if Galin himself wants to be found.”
