She remembered Prince Serill of Severina, his body decorated with less blood than the others, his sword dented from iron and wet with red. Standing next to him, she recalled Captain Cason Valkip, the fire-breathing dragon that could not be contained. She smelled the smoke that curled around his skin and through the blackened ashes of the Wraturo around him. She traced her eyes over his light skin speckled with black and red and rolling beads of sweat.
As she met the blue eyes that stared at her in awe, she finally remembered her name was not Night Terror. She was not a shadow wolf, nor was Night Carver part of her soul.
Her name was Brela, adopted daughter of Lilla and Tybost, the Veil Scholar leaders who saved her life when she was three and protected her as if she was their own blood. They’d guarded Valisea long after she had escaped and protected her secrets and magic.
Brela looked down at the dagger in her hand, soaked in so much red she didn’t know if it was hers or if it belonged to her enemy.
The blade carried generations of blood spilled to protect her people, and it should not be in her hands. It should be in Valisea with the father she couldn’t bear to name out loud because it made his death real. Made her mother’s sacrifice real.
Brela had challenged a gods-damned celvusa for the dagger that belonged to her family, and she had laughed when she walked away from certain death. She had laughed despite knowing the burden that now rested in her hands.
In the distance, she could have sworn she saw that celvusa, purple eyes floating in a dark haze on the horizon. Watching. Staring at her. Until it blinked and that purple was gone.
Brela dropped to her knees, sinking into the blood of the twenty-three Wraturo they had just killed. She ignored the frightened noises from her friends as her hands trembled under the dagger’s weight. Traced her fingers over the obsidian purples and blacks on the hilt as she realized she was truly alone.
There was nothing left of her parents.
So Brela cried.
19
Favorite Knife
Cason had never seen anything like it, and he suddenly understood how the woman had taken down Warley, would have beaten Ripley, and could have taken him, Boelyn, and Remont with that single knife in the forest.
Brela had become unstoppable the minute she charged forward. It was as if she had developed a sixth sense for avoiding iron and blades and magic. She’d turned into a blur. Moved like wind and weaved like water. Curled and danced and sliced her way into a horde of monsters, leaving nothing behind.
Brela was the Night Terror, and she was fierce and terrifying and more beautiful than anyone he had ever met. And he hated himself for having a feeling other than disgust toward a Veil cultist.
But she had saved them. She had allowed herself to be captured, and though she remained a pain in his ass, she had stayed to fight when others would have run.
He’d be dead if it weren’t for her. Even though they’d killed seven Wraturo each, her fierceness and presence had made that impossible fight winnable. He wouldn’t admit that to her, though she’d probably say something about it eventually.
If she ever spoke again.
Cason couldn’t tell what happened before Brela dropped to the ground and cried. She hadn’t even cared that she was knee deep in the blood and viscera she had shredded out of the Wraturo.
He’d only kept part of his attention on her as the man and woman—Elias and Farrah, he later learned—had rushed toward her, his own focus going to the prince who was shaking nearly as much as Brela was, though for different reasons.
Serill had never seen battle and blood like this, but he’d done well with the two Wraturo that Cason had allowed to move past their perimeter. They had already been injured, one by himself and the other by Brela, and wouldn’t have posed a challenge to the prince who he had trained. The man had already held his own in keeping Farrah and Brela from escaping earlier. The two raiders had gone down quickly, and though he looked ready to take on more, it wasn’t needed when Cason and the Night Terror had eliminated the remaining attackers.
In the two hours after the fight was over, Brela still hadn’t said a word while her friends had scurried around. Elias had been the one to scoop her out of the muck, not stopping until he had reached the river, removed their boots, and slid into the water to clean her clothes. Farrah had seen to fixing up a few cuts along Elias’s arms and chest, finding their horse over the hills, and then ordered—yes,ordered—the prince to help her make food over the fire, surrounded by the still sleeping men she had stung with finola poison darts.
Cason had busied himself with burning the remains of the raiders, flicking the remnants of his energy out of his reserves. He was exhausted, barely acknowledging Elias as he stormed over, chucked a dried hellthorn plant into the flames, and then flashed Cason an obscene gesture before stomping off.
Surprisingly, the man hadn’t demanded that Cason return Brela’s throwing knife, the one he’d found embedded in the jaw of a Wraturo. The one he had cleaned and had kept clasped in the left hand that was still cut from where he’d caught her throw in the forest. He didn’t think he’d let go of it.
By this point, he wouldn’t care if Brela and her friends broke their promise and ran. He’d let them, and worry about the consequences in the morning. But they were still here, Elias and Farrah not looking like they were planning on leaving their friend alone. Even if it meant they’d be traveling to Aelstow as well.
Brela was still leaning on the edge of the river, her boots on the right and Elias on her left, barely shifting as the man continued to clean the blood from her hair. She’d only eaten after Farrah had essentially forced the bread down her throat, but that was the only movement she’d made since she’d gotten out of the water.
It was surprising to see their personalities in this context—the man and woman who had been helping at an orphanage were part of the Night Terror assassin’s crew. Killers and thieves helping abandoned children and looking after each other. The fierce Brela who now couldn’t function and relied on her friends instead of herself. What a strange dynamic.
Farrah shoved a bowl of stew into Cason’s hands. He almost dropped Brela’s knife. Almost.
She waved her hand at the food. “If you’re not going to sleep like the prince, you need to eat to recover.” Sure enough, Serill was lightly snoring on his bedroll next to the fire. Cason narrowed his eyes at the bowl as the woman groaned. “I didn’t poison it.”
“You want me to have more energy?”
