He is the dark blemish, the cold wind, the blackened stream, the vein that parts the battle-flood.
The North Wind blasts a hole through the enemy with a spear whose point blazes white light. Another swing, and seven more darkwalkers fall. He must have sent Phaethon elsewhere, for there’s no sign of his mount as he crosses the field on foot, black cloak fluttering behind him.
The army’s right flank buckles under a new wave of infiltration, and Boreas hurries to aid the weakening margin, soldiers breaking and reforming around him. Darkwalkers fall, yet still more take their place. With his back turned, he does not see the enemy’s force changing shape to allow a single figure to pass through. He does not see a man, corruption blackening his eyes, break through the crush of war-hardened bodies, closing the distance.
My lungs empty. My heart stills.
I move, bow in hand, the wood cold and grounding. The string, fully drawn, vibrates with a high, tinny pitch. I aim, the arrow tracking the man’s destination.
The man raises his sword, mouth open in a cry lost to turmoil, cutting in a fatal downward arc toward the king’s unprotected back.
I release.
The arrow screams, slicing a clean path to embed itself in the man’s chest.
Boreas whirls to find his pursuer dead in the mud, sword still gripped in hand. With a hard yank, he rips the arrow from the man’s front, holds it up to the light for a long, drawn-out moment.
At once, he’s on his feet, scanning the area, but I’m too deep in the thicket for him to spot. With an urgent cry, I wheel Iliana around, and together, we flee back to camp.
Hours later, I sit in our tent, mending a hole in my coat, when Boreas barges through the flaps. His ghastly appearance startles me into dropping the garment.
His eyes are two coals, blue as the heart of a flame. Livid scratches mark his face. Soiled tunic, dented armor, ripped trousers, breastplate coated in gore. The scent of death quickly invades the space.
“What is this?” he demands.
My attention briefly shifts to the object he holds. Calmly returning to my sewing, I reply, “It appears to be an arrow.”
“That you shot.”
My mouth purses in contemplation. “I’m not sure how that’s possible if I’ve been at camp this whole time.”
“You lie.”
With a haughty sniff, I lift my chin. “Prove it.”
If smiles could grow fangs, his would. A thrill runs through me at the sight, though I’m not sure if it’s from fear or something more… carnal. “Pallas informed me of your midday run.”
“Pallas is an ass.”
“Goose feathers? They bear your mark.” He lifts the arrow shaft, presses the wood to his nose, and inhales. His voice deepens. “Lavender.”
The scent of my hand soap.
Smart man. In that case, there’s little point in continuing this charade. “So what if I shot it? Lucky for you Iwasthere, otherwise that man would have cut you down.”
“I told you to remain here for your own safety.”
“You told me to remain here because you like everything in its place.”
“Vexing woman,” he growls. “I knew you were reckless, but I didn’t think you were a fool.”
My spine locks, and the restraint of holding myself back twinges through my coiled muscles. If he can hurt me, that means I’ve become far more vulnerable than I ever intended. That worries me. “Why am I not surprised?” I snap. “You dare to insult me when I’m the one who saved you?”
“I am a god. I cannot die.”
Yes, and he has the disturbing habit of reminding me so often I doubt I could forget it. “I was trying to help.”
“Next time, help by following orders.”
