He brought the blade down, and the charge thundered into motion. The ground shook under the horses’ hooves as they surged downhill, the mist tearing apart around them. Shouts rose from Sebastian’s camp, surprise, confusion, and alarm pulsing through it, but it was already too late.
Men scrambled for weapons, and some didn’t make it as Elijah’s men tore through Sebastian’s forces. The clash was violent, steel ringing out as blades met, echoing in the valley. The sound was soon swallowed up by the cries of men—some of them battle cries, others cries of agony as they fell to their deaths.
Kieran did not slow through the chaos. He cut through the edge of the camp like a force of nature, like an echo of the storm that had come to pass, his blade flashing, his body moving on instinct honed by years of battle. He didn’t see faces—only obstacles, only time slipping away from his hands.
Sebastian’s men recovered with brutal speed, even as they had been unprepared for the attack only moments prior. Thet had been waiting for them, of course; they had been waiting, and they knew they would come, but Sebastian seemed to have thought he would have more time.
Or perhaps, they simply hadn’t had the time.
Now, orders were shouted, and lines tried to form. The men raised their swords and their shields, and the surprise gave way to grim resistance. The camp became a snarl of movement, men rushing in every direction, smoke from trampled fires stinging Kieran’s eyes, horses screaming as they broke loose around them.
Kieran dismounted in the midst of it, his boots hitting the ground hard. His sword moved as if it were a part of him, precise and relentless. When one of Sebastian’s men jumped in his way, his sword raised, his eyes murderous, Kieran met the blow withhis own blade, stopping the attack. The man stumbled back from the force of his block, and Kieran was quick to deliver a counterattack, one that was swiftly parried.
With a roar, the man charged him, crazed by the battle. Kieran felt it in his own veins, that familiar rush of adrenaline steadying his hand and narrowing his focus. For a brief moment, nothing else existed but the two of them, nothing but the scrape of steel on steel, the sound of their ragged breathing, the crunch of dead leaves under their boots.
“Me Laird! Left flank!” someone shouted.
“I’ve got it!” Elijah’s voice answered, fierce and steady even amid the din.
With a swing of his sword, Kieran forced the man back once more then swiftly parried the blow that followed. And then, with a grunt of effort, he brought his sword down and cut through the man, slicing him from shoulder to hip.
The only sound the man made was a gasp. Nothing else made it past his lips before he collapsed onto the ground, drenching the earth in blood. Kieran spared him one last glance before he turned back to the battle before him, searching for his next target.
Sebastian, he had to find Sebastian.
He pushed forward, carving a path through the center of the camp, his eyes burning from the smoke as they searched beyond the immediate fight. He scanned every tent, every cluster of men, every stretch of trees beyond the firelight.
He parried, stepped, struck again, not to kill but to break through. Men fell back before him, some stumbling, others retreating outright when they saw his face, his size, the sheer fury driving him forward.
Then, a voice cut through the chaos.
“Kieran!”
The sound of his name was faint, ragged, terrified. His blood turned to ice at the sound of it, terror gripping him like it never had before. He froze for a fraction of a second, heart slamming so hard it stole his breath.
“Help!”
Her voice again, clearer this time, cracking with desperation.
“Lydia!” he called.
He spun toward the sound, shoving past a struggling knot of men, ignoring the shouted warnings behind him. He vaulted over a fallen crate, his boots skidding in the mud, and then he saw her.
She was being dragged through the camp by the arm, stumbling to keep herself upright, her wrists bound behind her back with rope that bit cruelly into her skin. Her cloak was half-torn, her hair loose and wild around her face, her eyes wide with terror.
Sebastian had her.
The man moved with grim purpose, one hand locked around Lydia’s arm, the other gripping a sword he used more to threaten than to fight. He barked orders as he went, shoving aside his own men, dragging Lydia toward the far edge of the camp, toward the trees.
“Lydia!” Kieran roared.
Her head snapped up, and for one breathless instant, their eyes met across the chaos.
“Kieran!” she cried.
The sound of her voice, frightened but alive, hit him harder than any blow ever could.
Sebastian turned, following her gaze, and smiled. Even from a distance, Kieran saw it clearly—the smug satisfaction, the certainty that he had already won something precious.
