His gaze swept the dim interior. Empty, save for a table with a lantern, a basin stained with bloody water, and a stool.
A glint of gold on the table caught the light.
Aldric’s hand shot out, fingers closing around his sun pendant. The one Sera had given him on their wedding day. The metal was icy in his palm, but the weight of it steadied him. Grounded him. He slipped it over his head, tucking the chain beneath his shirt.
He would not leave it behind.
A sound tore through the silence outside—a howl followed by a scream.
A scream cut short.
Aldric was on his feet in an instant, ignoring the pitch of nausea churning his stomach. More howls echoed. Snarls, steel clashing, men shouting.
He lurched toward the tent flap, instincts blazing. He needed to know what was happening out—
The flap swept open.
And there she was.
The witch.
She looked down at him with her usual scorn, but now…something else glittered there. Triumph. “Good,” she purred. “You’re alive. And just in time.”
Aldric’s jaw tightened. “In time for what, witch?” he spat.
Her smile widened. Predatory. Satisfied. “She has finally arrived.”
The ground seemed to tilt beneath him, threatening to send him sprawling. “You lie.”
She arched a brow. “Do I?”
Outside, the noise swelled—shouts, steel on steel, bestial snarls. Who else could it be? Who else commanded such numbers? Who else was reckless enough—foolishenough—to come for him?
It was her. His kirei.
Rage surged white-hot, burning away the tremor of dread. His Sons had failed. They had not kept his wife away. They had let her come here, into the heart of the viper’s nest.
“No!” he roared, lunging for the witch.
He didn’t know what he meant to do. Only that he would dosomething.
But she didn’t flinch. Her fingers slid toward the hilt of the witchblade at her hip. Sickly light pulsed from the jewel embedded in the pommel.
“Seize him,” she commanded over her shoulder. “Bring him to the pass.” Without a backward glance, the witch swept past the tent flap and disappeared from view.
The tent darkened. A hulking shape lumbered within. The very same dead-eyed Arathian he had stabbed back in the woods.
Aldric’s mouth dried. His weak limbs screamed in protest. In a fair fight, he could have gutted this Arathian in seconds.
But this was far from a fair fight.
Aldric was unarmed. He was barefoot.
And up against a monster who could feel no pain.
The Arathian reached for him.
Aldric ducked on instinct—though the movement nearly pitched him to the earth. He staggered backward, vision swimming.Think.
