“I will be right back.”That was what he had promised her.
And he could not break that promise.
Swallowing hard, he drove his heels into Valor’s flanks. The warhorse surged forward, black mane whipping, iron-shod hooves scattering sparks as they tore through the streets of Goldreach.
Watch over her,he desperately prayed.Watch over Goldreach. Watch over us all. Please.
Tristan leaned further over his horse’s neck.Faster.He had to fly faster. But each strike of hooves against cobblestones was pure agony, jarring up through his armor into the tender place behind his eyes.
Not now.He clenched his jaw against the first whisper of a headache and pushed on through the market district.
Valor veered past a cart abandoned in the middle of the street, nearly bowling it over. To his left, a narrow canal flashed into view between buildings, choked with smoke and the glow of distant fire. The harbor. It was the harbor that was ablaze.
Suddenly, a soldier in all black—a mercenary—burst from a side alley, blade raised. Tristan barely had time to shout before Valor’s shoulder slammed into the man, sending him spinning to the ground in a tangle of limbs and steel. The man’s cry cut off as he hit the stone.
He twisted in the saddle, every instinct screaming to wheel around and finish him, to make sure he stayed down.
No.The cathedral. He had to hurry.
The great white spire of the cathedral speared the sky ahead, rising over the rooftops, its bell tower caught in the glow of the burning harbor. Tristan angled toward it, his heart pounding harder with every stride. The closer he drew, the worse the headache throbbed; the more the world narrowed into a tunnel of sound, smoke, and prayer.
By the time he burst into the grand courtyard, the cathedral’s wide steps swam into view through the haze.
So did the fighting.
At the top of the steps, the great oak doors stood closed, guarded by a single figure in plain brown robes.
Father Perero.
The elderly Shepherd braced his back against the doors, white hair stained red at one temple, staff gripped in both hands. Three Arathian soldiers in all black ringed him, curved blades flashing in the afternoon light.
Tristan’s chest constricted. “Father!” he shouted, driving Valor onward toward the steps.Faster. He couldn’t fail now.
What was the Shepherd doing?
He should have been in the cathedral, hiding. Praying. Not on the front lines fighting like some Kunishi warlord.
Setting his jaw, Tristan reached behind him and wrapped a gauntlet-clad hand around the hilt of his sword. “Stop!” he roared at the Arathian men, wrenching the blade free. “Stop and fight me, you cowards!”
But the men did not stop. They did not so much as glance his way.
Only Father Perero did, his eyes wide. The Shepherd called out to him, something he could not hear. But he could read the word well enough on the older man’s lips:
Run.
That was when he saw her—the woman in red standing just to the side of the steps, staring straight at him. Beautiful. Tall, just like Olivia. Black hair. Tawny skin.
No armor. No helm.
But it was her eyes that made his stomach pitch. Her golden eyes, aglow with malice.
Witch.
Shock washed over him, causing him to flinch away. Valor immediately responded to the involuntary twitch on his reins, sliding to a halt, whinnying, snorting.
Lazily, the witch pushed back her cloak and wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the dagger at her hip. Her voice lifted, lilting through the air toward him. “Enough playing, boys.”
A smile curved her lips as she continued to stare at him, her eyes locked on him and him alone. Challenging. Mocking. As if from far away, he heard her order the soldiers: “Kill the Shepherd.”
