Her shirt has been ripped open to expose her back. The storm of noise prevents me from hearing if she’s shouting or crying, but the way she struggles tells me she’s fully conscious.
Because of the way she’s chained to the post, she won’t be able to see what’s happening behind her.
Cohen Copperstream stands near the post at her back, a metal whip in his hand that has three sharp-looking tails. They drag along the yellow cobblestones as he takes a step toward her.
It will only take a few strikes for those lashes to cut through her body.
Nero is only five paces away from Cohen, shouting and thrashing while three armored Blacksmiths attempt to subdue him.
He knocks one of them to the side, punches the second, and nearly makes it a step in Cohen’s direction before the third Blacksmith strikes the back of Nero’s head and knocks him to the ground.
As Nero falls forward, metal spreads out from the Blacksmith’s palm, a chain whipping outward. It wraps around Nero’s neck and spears into the courtyard on either side, acting like a noose that pins his head to the stone.
“Not my daughter!” he shouts.
My mind flies back to the moment when I, too, was anchored to the ground, unable to stop my father’s death.
Malak promised me that Nero would have a very believable reason to want to kill Cohen, and it looks like this will be it.
I assess all of this within the few seconds it takes me to sprint toward a second row of guards, who stand in a wide ring around the whipping post. They’re also holding glaives.
Still five paces ahead of me, Thoren remains quick and agile, running faster than I’ve ever seen him move.
The second row of Blacksmiths appears to see him coming, turning their weapons in his direction moments before an arrow flies from the ramparts, hitting the ground behind his feet.
The nearest guard on the ground moves to intercept Thoren, his weapon glinting in the dim light, but Thoren quickly changes course. Darting around the man, my brother charges through the gap the guard left behind himself, narrowly avoiding the blade of the next Blacksmith.
Thoren’s movements are so fast, they’re hard to follow, but I catch the moment he snatches a dagger from the hilt of the first Blacksmith’s belt as he darts past.
And then he’s through.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t shout.
He runs straight for Cohen Copperstream, whose eyes have widened.
Thoren’s muscles bunch visibly as he leaps from the ground toward Cohen.
My brother’s body is a blur, the dagger gripped in his hand, the blade flashing across the air as he aims it for Cohen’s face.
The breath leaves my chest as Thoren arcs through the air, stronger and more determined than I’ve ever seen him.
But my brother is used to fighting from afar. He doesn’t have experience with close combat and my heart is in my throat.
Cohen draws back his whip arm, clearly intending to strike the lashes across Thoren’s body, but Thoren has already reached him.
At the last moment, Cohen turns his head.
Thoren’s blade slashes across his cheek and nose but doesn’t impale him.
As Thoren’s blade arcs down toward the left, his momentum takes him in that direction.
Cohen’s whip handle turns to liquid in an instant, covering his right fist, which he rams upward.
Thoren’s flight takes him right into the punch.
Crack!
A roar tears from my mouth as the sound of breaking bone sends a shock of fear through me.
