Rydian breathed out, barely more than a thought, and darkness lifted from the ground to swath the sentry’s helmet.
“What are you…?” I watched, confused at the way the shadows merely hovered rather than struck a blow.
“An illusion,” Rydian whispered. “He’ll see us as fellow soldiers. Nothing more.”
The sentry stepped closer. The illusion stretched to accommodate him. His weapon lowered a fraction as if to accept us as his own.
Then the shadows parted, and his gaze snagged on the exposed mark inked on my throat.
Something flickered behind those obsidian eyes.
“Ident—” he began.
Rydian was already moving. His hand clamped the sentry’s jaw, shadows knifing between the helmet and skin. The Obsidian’s body went slack in a single, horrible sigh. Rydian lowered him without sound.
The second sentry came rushing; I was already there. Dorcha slid under ribs where armor parted for movement.The Obsidian’s breath whooshed out as his knees buckled. I caught his weight and lowered him to the frost-coated ground.
We dragged both bodies into the briars and kept going.
Faster now.
Past the outer line, where I scented animal, sweat, boiled meat. Rydian steered us toward a line of heavy canvas structures near the northern quadrant where supply wagons sat: coils of rope piled beside crates, racks of barbed grapnels gleaming in the fading moonlight, stacked barrels that stunk of sour ale.
Somewhere on the other side of it, a guard sneezed.
We froze and let a patrol pass so close I could count the smudges on their boots.
Rydian’s shadows held. Then we were moving again.
We found gaps, slipped through them, became the night. My mouth was dry with fear that, at any moment, we’d be spotted and it would all come crashing down. I swallowed back the fear and pointed to the largest of the tents in this section.
The hub of supplies.
Hopefully, food stores or even weapons.
Either way, if that tent caught fire, the rest would burn with it. They stood too close not to catch on one another.
It was perfect.
My palms warmed at the idea of igniting this camp. The sleeping beast inside me that was my newfound well of power purred in a slow awakening. It was nearly time.
Rydian led the way, both of us keeping low despite the shadows shrouding us from view.
When we reached the tent, he slid the flap aside with gloved fingers, enough to slip under one at a time. Pressing in close at his back, I stepped through and was greeted by a wall of cold air, more frigid inside than out. Cold storage, maybe.
But it smelled wrong for any kind of food stores.
Instead, beneath the chill, I scented disinfectant—and blood.
Rydian stepped aside, and I glimpsed what we’d found. Cots. Rows of them, most empty, but a few of them with bodies wrapped in blankets. On the bedsides, lanterns burned low.
A medic ward.
I noted onyx-eyed soldiers staring unseeing at the tent ceiling. They showed no signs of life. A few others lay on their backs, bandages soaked through, breaths shallow. All of them past the point of caring at the sight of us.
One cot sat apart from the others. On its bedside were instruments laid out on trays: a bone saw, various blades, an iron hook. On the floor, a long, thick length of chains lay coiled. There was nothing healing about any of it. Only torture and suffering.
My pulse stuttered once, hard, and then recovered. Rydian’s fingers brushed my wrist, and I knew it was a warning. A reminder that we weren’t here for injured Obsidians.
