He’d kill her. Do worse things to her.
You don’t care,the voice insisted.You made the mistake of caring before. And they ended up dead anyway.
Logic urged him that escape was the best course of action. Calculation told him that the mercenary was taller and stronger, and that his own odds of winning were narrower than a new moon.
Yet something more powerful than logic and more compelling than calculation roared in his veins as he angled his blade at the mercenary. Ramson dug his heels into the ground. “She’s mine,” he snarled. “And I don’t share.”
With a growl, his enemy rushed forward. Ramson darted back, dodging each whip-fast slash of the two alternating blades. Swerve, duck, twirl, parry, as though he were in a deadly dance, his moves light and fluid. The lessons of his youth were coming back to him and he felt as though he had been transported to another time and place, when his swordsmaster was bearing down on him beneath the brilliant blue of a Bregonian sky.
As fluid as the river, as strong as the sea.
This was just another lesson; just another dance.
Ramson leapt out of the way as the mercenary’s blades slashed at him, so fast that they were a silver-gray blur in the rain. Blow after blow, the mercenary bore down, his slashes growing faster and stronger. Ramson dodged. Face, throat, chest, legs—back and back, the song of their blades rising to a crescendo.
Ramson feinted left; his opponent lunged.
Ramson slashed right; his opponent dodged.
Bit by bit, Ramson’s exhaustion began to show. His limbs ached. Soon his weakness would cost him.
Ramson leapt back as the mercenary swung his blades down, but he felt the sharp sting of metal across his chest. Blood warmed his clothes. He barely had enough time to glance up when the mercenary’s fist collided with his face.
Pain exploded in his jaw. Black spots filled his vision and the world spun as he reeled off balance. He plunged backward into cold, wet mud.
Gasping, he rolled to his side, reaching for his sword.
A dark shape burst from the curtain of rain, and the mercenary was on him, landing one, two, three vicious punches in his abdomen. Ramson retched; stars erupted before him.
A flash of metal. Kneeling atop Ramson, the mercenary drove his blade down.
Ramson’s hands flew up. His arms screamed; his legs felt like cotton; his head was light from the breaths that he could not draw.
A savage grin split the mercenary’s face as he threw his body weight into pushing the dagger down, its steely edge glinting like a wicked promise. The man was going to sink the blade into Ramson’s heart. Slowly.
I’m going to die.
The tip of the dagger pressed into his rib cage, drawing blood. A strangled yell tore from Ramson’s throat as he gave one final push—
And suddenly, the pressure on his chest and on his arms was gone. The mercenary’s head flew back sharply, throat exposed. For a moment, he was frozen, outline rigid in the rain as though he was grappling with an invisible force. And then he toppled into the mud.
Ramson scrambled into a crouch. Even as he stumbled away, the mercenary began to rise.
But it was the figure ten paces behind the mercenary, barely an outline in the falling rain, that caught Ramson’s attention.
The witch was on her hands and knees, the crimson in her eyes receding as they shifted away from the mercenary. Blood dripped from her nose and mouth. For a moment, their gazes met. And then she collapsed.
Ramson had heard of Affinites surpassing their limits. Affinities drew energy from their bodies, and overexertion could lead to unconsciousness or, in the rarest of cases, death.
For a split second, staring at the witch’s still frame, he wondered whether she’d died, and how he would feel about that. She was a Trade and a valuable asset, so that would be a loss…but there was something more tugging at his conscience.
She’d saved him—again. For the second time, he owed the witch a blood debt.
Long ago, his father—the demon who called himself his father—had taught him the meaning of blood debts, of honor, and of courage. Ramson had made himself forget almost all memories of that man. But today, with the rain roaring all around him, phantom shapes rose from the ground, whispering to him in his father’s words.
Lightning flashed, outlining the mercenary’s towering form amid the slashing rain. His sword gleamed wet as he turned to Ana’s crumpled form.
Ramson’s head spun. The ground blurred, weaving in and out of focus.
