The massive double doors that lead to the courtyard and the stables beyond are closed.
Standing in front of them is Lord Malek.
He is not alone. Twenty archers line the upper balcony, their bows drawn, arrows nocked and aimed at our hearts. They are not house guards. They are Malek’s personal elite, wearing the crimson and gold of House Warrior.
Malek smiles. He is unhurt, untouched by the chaos he has unleashed. He holds a goblet of my wine in one hand and a heavy battle-axe in the other.
"Leaving so soon, Imas?" he calls out, his voice booming in the cavernous space. "And without saying goodbye? I am hurt."
I stop. Asema halts beside me, raising her shield, though it will do little against twenty arrows.
I push Leora behind me. I grip my sword, though I know it is useless. I have no magic. I have no army. I have only a piece of steel and a woman who is too exhausted to stand.
"Get out of my house, Malek," I say, my voice steady despite the hopelessness of the odds.
"Your house?" Malek laughs. "This is a tomb, Imas. And you are the corpse."
He raises his axe.
"Loose!” he commands.
18
LEORA
The air in the grand hall is permeated with the scent of death. Malek’s archers are nocking their arrows, the fletching brushing against their cheeks. The tension is a drawn bowstring, humming against my skin.
"Loose!" Malek roars.
"Shields up!" Asema bellows, her voice cracking but undeniably loud as if she is commanding soldiers but there is no one else.
She does not raise a shield of wood or iron. She raises herself.
I gasp, my eyes going wide as I watch her.
With a roar that sounds like tearing metal, Asema charges. She does not run toward us to cover our retreat. She runs toward Malek.
She is one woman against twenty archers and a Sorcerer Lord. She is broken, bleeding, one eye swollen shut, her armor battered into scrap. But she moves with the terrifying, singular purpose of a Miou warrior who has chosen her end.
"Go!" she screams over her shoulder, not looking back. "My Lord, go!"
The first volley of arrows flies. Most of them thud into the heavy oak of the door behind us, but three find their mark in Asema’s body. She stumbles, her momentum faltering, but she does not fall. She keeps running, swinging her sword, a whirlwind of desperate steel.
"Asema!" Imas shouts, taking a step toward her.
I grab his arm, digging my heels into the stone floor. "No! Imas, look at her!"
He freezes. He looks at his captain, the woman who has been his shadow for centuries. Asema turns her head for a fraction of a second. Her good eye meets his. There is no fear in it. There is only a fierce, blinding gratitude.
Thank you,her expression says, louder than any words can ever say. Her eyes say it all.You pulled me from the gutter. You gave me a sword. You gave me a life. Now let me give it back.
Then she looks at me. Her gaze is heavy, urgent.Keep him alive.
She turns back to Malek, who is raising his battle-axe with a sneer. Asema reaches into her belt and pulls out a cluster of black spheres—alchemical firebombs.
She pulls the pin.
"For House Imas!" she screams, and she throws herself at the base of the stairs, directly beneath the balcony where the archers stand.
