“I was… distracted.”
“She left?” Serill asked, looking around.
Cason nodded, rubbing his temple.
“Because of Gerrart?”
The captain shook his head. “I have no idea. I thought it was going well, and then…”
Serill huffed a breath. “Well, you can tell me about it later.” He patted Cason on the shoulder. “I have some good news, at least.”
The prince gestured toward the doors.
Cason stood and quickly bowed as Lord Remont and the King of Severina stepped outside, Boelyn closing the doors behind them. Remont had shed his thick gold jacket, his crimson tunic cut to reveal his sun-blessed ink—his protective affinity. It had been years since Cason had seen the ink of a shielder.
“Captain Valkip, it’s nice to see you again,” Remont said, extending his hand as Cason shook it. The man had a firm grip and an equally determined glint in his eye.
“Apologies, Lord Remont. I don’t think—“ Lord Remont smirked before gesturing his hands in patterns. The Anfroy prayer ritual. Cason chuckled to himself. “You’re the man from Averlyn. The one who directed us to Warley and Ripley.”
He nodded. “I am. It seems we were sent on the same mission.” He glanced toward the king and Boelyn before looking back to Cason, a dark smile tugging his lips. “How would you like to catch the Night Terror tonight?”
* * *
Warley liftedBrela with ease despite her squirming, slamming her into the ground with a crack.
Air left her lungs. She gasped.
Brela barely rolled out of the way before his foot had a chance to connect with her chest.
She was on her feet a second later, a knife in each hand as she faced the man. She couldn’t afford to throw too many blades, not when she had so few and Warley had a sword strapped to his back. She’d have to keep him busy with tight quarters so he couldn’t draw his weapon. That also meant she’d be within range of his earth-kind strength, and even though she wasn’t small, his magic was going to do damage.
Twisting, she dodged Warley’s punch. Her hands were still moving with her body. One knife sliced the inside of his arm while the other cut deeper into his thigh.
The man grunted in pain but didn’t break stride like she hoped. His other elbow struck her shoulder and clipped her jaw, sending her flying into a tree.
Brela ducked under the kick aimed for her throat, diving forward as she flung her left blade. It embedded into his side, just under his ribs, but not deep. Not even close to slowing him down.
Shit.
Brela heard the slight limp coming from Ripley behind her; quickly wondering which one of Gerrart’s men had caused the damage. Probably none of them. It was probably Valkip.
She flattened herself to the ground to avoid his kick, flinging the second blade as she whirled. That one found its way deeper into Ripley’s skin, his water affinity doing nothing to slow down the knife. He let out a curse, ripping the weapon from his lower thigh as Brela leapt to her feet and distanced herself, drawing two more knives.
She let out a laugh. “Ripley, you’ve shrunk. I was aiming for your knee.”
“Psycho bitch,” he growled, curling his fingers in patterns to call on his magic.
“You set us up, Night Terror,” Warley snapped.
Brela saw the flash in his eyes, the subtle twitch of muscles before he would reach for his sword. She had a better chance of surviving his strength than that blade.
She dove at him, using her speed while she still had it. Swung and sliced. Calculated each strike that would minimize the damage he returned with his fists. Ribs. Upper arm. Hip. Missed her shin. Nearly broke her thumb. Ripped open her chin and lip.
It was a dance, trying to use Warley as a shield against Ripley. Keeping the water wielder from joining the fight or using his magic without hurting his brother. Her breath was ragged with the momentum she kept, but Warley was slowing, too. He was strength, not speed, and he went for his advantage.
He reached for his sword. Exposed softer flesh.
Knife flew.
