Warley fell to his knees, eyes wide, hands clutching the blade at his throat as blood sprayed. He was down moments later, leaving her exposed.
Brela didn’t expect Ripley’s whip of ice to rip through the space so precisely with his roar. She turned enough to keep it from slicing her own throat.
Her own scream filled the forest. Cold stung through her muscles as his magic dug into her left shoulder. Fabric and skin ripped, ice screeching over the Veil shard in her chest. Her bones rattled as the ice gripped tighter, crackling and reaching for her throat. Clawing through her skin like it was digging for her lungs.
Ripley shouldn’t have moved closer. Shouldn’t have shifted into her sights. It gave her a moment of clarity.
The next knife was flying through the air before he could flinch.
The blade dug into his wrist, severing the connection to the frozen whip that had wrapped around her. His fingers splayed on impact, shattering the ice that kept her tied down.
Brela still couldn’t breathe. She clawed at the gash in her skin, desperate to rip out the ice that had sunk into her open wounds.
Ripley’s howl turned feral, his teeth bared at her. Fuming. Spitting.
Then, voices.
Ripley moved swiftly despite his limp. His uninjured hand curled into her hair and jerked her head back. Somehow he held a knife to her throat with his damaged hand, his blood soaking her chest.
Those voices grew louder.
She didn’t care whether it was blood or ice melting along her chest, only that feeling it drip meant skin was exposed. The Veil shard was exposed.
Her hands clasped over the shard, the fabric of her shirt too frayed to cover it.
Magic. She had to put an illusion on it. Even if her eyes were purple, she could hide those too.
For how long?
It didn’t matter. Brela’s fingers twisted over the shard, calling the illusion.
Pain ripped through the obsidian, like tearing skin. She screamed again, eyes blurring. Blood, pine, and pepper filled her mouth.
Hellthorn. She could still taste it. No magic.
Fuck. This was the end. She was going to die.
Ahead of her, Valkip broke through the trees, sword drawn in his right hand with lightning crackling up his left arm. His eyes met hers, widening in horror. Lightning sputtered with his shock. Became a dull glow in his hand as two more men broke through, one in the same blue as Valkip, the other in crimson.
Double fuck. That was Lord Remont, famous Veil Worshipper torturer. Oh, this night just continued to get worse.
Ripley only gripped tighter into her hair, the knife cutting skin along her throat as she swallowed a grunt of pain. Her hands clung to her chest, wet with her own blood but covering the obsidian that would sign her death warrant.
“Let her go,” Valkip snapped. The other two men flexed their fingers as Brela blinked, focusing. The one in blue, Serill’s friend, channeled lightning along his sword. Lord Remont didn’t reveal his magic, a sword in each hand.
“She killed my brother,” Ripley hissed.
Valkip’s eyes drifted to Warley’s body, the blood seeping onto the ground and glittering in the moonlight. His attention snapped back to Brela, eyes flickering.
Surprise. Concern. Fear for her life.
But not betrayal. Not yet.
Valkip took a step closer but froze as Ripley dug harder into Brela’s neck.
“A trade,” Ripley growled. He lifted her higher, like he was holding up a prize. “You were hunting her, right? The Night Terror? I’ll turn her over to you if you let me go.”
She could see the doubt ripple through the three men in front of her, but her eyes were locked on Valkip and the heat rising off his body. He was counting, trying to keep his fire in check. She could see it in his eyes—the way he was desperately trying to cling to the facts in front of him and the information that Brela had dropped from the markets. He didn’t want to believe the obvious truth. Somehow, he was trying to believe inher.
