“Hello, boys,” Brela purred, tongue running over her lips.
Every weapon was now pointed at her, and four of them had the good sense to be trembling.
“My, my, you’re a pretty thing,” Ivan replied, chin lifting as he surveyed the five dead men. “A violent little beast, too.”
Cason nearly growled as Ivan took a step closer to her, but only because Brela didn’t flinch. She barely acknowledged the movements of men trying to surround her, or seemed to care that Cason snuck out from where he was hiding.
“Sorry about your crew,” she said, looking positively bored as she leaned back in her seat.
“No, I don’t think you are sorry,” Ivan replied, taking another step closer. “Weak links, if you ask me. Nowyou, on the other hand. Someone like you by my side could—“
Ivan cut himself off, and Cason felt the man stiffen, even at a distance.
His voice chilled as his sword angled to her hand. “That blade. Where did you get it?”
“Oh, this?” Brela asked, lifting Night Carver in front of her as if she were inspecting it for the first time. Then, a wicked smirk. “I fought a celvusa for it.”
Ivan snorted. “You have no idea what you hold, girl. Give it to me, and I might let you live.”
It was impossible not to hear the absolute hunger in his tone. He had no idea who he spoke to. Cason almost felt bad for the man. Almost.
“No idea what I hold?” Brela’s eyes dragged down the man, sizing up her opponent. “You think I don’t know what power this dagger has? What it means to my people?”
Everyone, including Cason, froze. And then Brela lifted Night Carver and used the blade to move her shirt, revealing the obsidian in her collarbone.
Two men recoiled, four hissed, and Ivan growled. “What are you?”
“Empress of Chaos, Nightmares, and Death,” she purred, and then her glare turned deadly. “But when you bow before I rip your gods-damned heads off, you will address me as theVeil Scholar.”
“I think I’ll cut out your tongue first, cultist,” Ivan hissed. “Use that dagger you love to inspect some of that pretty flesh while you choke on your blood. Maybe turn you over to that army camp a few miles up the road, see what kind of reward you’ll fetch.”
Cason would have trembled—would have fallen to his knees—at the look Brela gave the man, but it lit something dark and wicked inside his chest. Which is why it didn’t surprise Cason that when Brela looked at him with a smile that promised death, he returned a nod. He wouldn’t stand in her way.
“That one’s mine,” she stated, pointing Night Carver at Ivan.
Some of the men turned toward Cason in surprise. And then Brela unleashed herself.
Her throwing knife was embedded in the whiny one’s skull before Cason met the sword of his first attacker. Unskilled and weak, Cason had no trouble deflecting, kicking, and thrusting his blade cleanly through the man’s chest.
A club barreled toward Cason just as he yanked his sword free. He ducked and swung, slicing through both shins as the man began to scream.
Blood sprayed from the looter’s mouth as the scream turned wet. Cason rolled in time to avoid the man falling on top of him, an arrow protruding from his chest.
He spun toward the row of houses and spotted Elias sitting on the sturdiest section of a partially collapsed roof.
“I got bored waiting for you,” the man shouted with a wink, and then nocked another arrow.
Cason turned and deflected another sword, this man slightly better prepared. To his left, Brela wasn’t making any death clean or painless. She used Night Carver sparingly, and mostly to deflect blades as she shoved her throwing knife into soft flesh. Dancing between two men, she delivered slice after slice along nerves and muscles, never going for kills or blows that would render them unable to fight.
Ivan seemed content to remain back and study Brela’s fighting technique, letting her tire herself out. Only when he thought he saw opportunities did he strike. Brela deflected easily.
Cason parried another blow and sliced upward, delivering a deep wound to the man’s shoulder. He heard the arrow whiz behind him. Heard the gurgling of a pierced throat, and the thud as the body collapsed to the ground.
“Rude!” Brela shouted. “I had it under control.”
“Sure you did,” was the shouted response.
Cason grumbled as he punched the wrist of his injured attacker, forcing the man to stumble back. “You couldn’t have killed the ones”—he dodged the slice as the uninjured looter once again failed to be a challenge—“with weapons first?”
