I turn just in time to see a fae warrior staring me down. His green armor is stained red, where the embossed leaves have been etched into the metal, and now blood fills the pattern. His left arm’s armor is torn off. His face is covered in grime like my own, but his eyes are sharp—a predator trying to survive a cruel winter in order to see spring flowers where easy prey roam.
Why do I feel like I’m looking into a mirror?What is scarier? Deep down, I know he feels the same way.
I inch back.Don’t do that; now he knows you’re scared.
A strange sense overtakes me. He’s a kindred spirit.
I never pause during battle. The moment you do, you are dead, but like I allowed the fae to say goodbye to his fellow soldier, this fae allows me to watch him.
Why didn’t he stab me in the back?
I pause; my breath is labored, and my muscles ache. I clutch my sword, willing my body to pour more adrenaline into my veins.
I desperately need a pint of blood!
That’s why it’s vital that vampires don’t solely rely on blood. You need to be skilled with a sword in order to survive. The king often overlooks this, which costs him thousands of vampire soldiers.
I widen my stance, feeling the mud grow slick from all the blood covering it.
“You should have struck!” I shout, my mouth drier and more porous than the rocks volcanoes produce.
Can he even hear me over the fighting?
He continues to watch me, like an owl assessing something that caught its wide, ever-watchful eyes; his large sword is in one hand, but his other palm is open with the smallest hint of magic.
Shit! How the hell does he still have access to it?
Have the fae sent in reserves? If so, we’re all dead.
My neck starts to turn in search of my brother, but years of training snap my focus onto the biggest threat.
“Why didn’tyou?”His reply surprises me.
I never talk to fae before I kill them. It makes them seem more like me: a soldier, duty-bound to follow orders, even when he loathes them. Killing your kind—I’m not talking fae or vampire. I mean, a person—that’s never easy.
I won’t blame, nor hate, the man or woman who bests me. It’s just the way war is.
One day, it will slay you.
He moves his index finger.
What is that? I shake my arms out. Something odd seems to have feathered over my skin. All the cries and shouts of the battle become a faint buzzing in my ear.
He steps closer but maintains a fighting stance. Fae and vampires blur behind him as the fighting continues, but the soldiers move slowly; each hit and swing of their weapons is like lifting a mountain.
What’s happening?
“You could have executed the fae easily,” he states smoothly.
He’s been stalking me. I nod and start pumping blood into my fingers. “He was saying goodbye.”
“Why did you grant his desire?” he questions.
He really is like a goddamn owl! High and mighty, perched on a branch, just watching and questioning. He treats ourconversation as if we are two nobles sitting at a table of finery; I imagine the scent of meats and ale instead of death and the battle surrounding us.
“Why do you assume I wouldn’t?”
“This is war.”
