Now they would be targets.
She pressed her forehead to the moss, willing the moment to pass, but Kael’s hand squeezed, gentle but insistent. “Now,” he mouthed. She nodded, barely perceptible, and braced herself for what was coming.
The signal came from above: a sharp birdcall, blending perfectly into the cacophony of the woods unless you’d been told what to listen for. In an instant, Seraphina’s arrow zipped through the air with a faint whoosh, so fast Alina barely saw it. The arrow found its mark in the throat of the first guard, a bloom of red staining his coat. He clutched at the wood sticking out of his body and crumpled slowly to the ground, a look of genuine surprise on his face. The second man fell an instant later, the arrow lodged in the vulnerable spot above his collar, gurgling, wheezing, and struggling for a few seconds, until he gradually subsided and finally lay there, limbs tangled, like a puppet with cut strings.
The remaining guards started to shout and bellow orders, re-grouping in formation, all boredom vanished in an instant. Kael was up and moving, silent as mist, pure determination and zero hesitation. He engaged another guard, his strokes sure and powerful, and with the element of surprise on his side, cut him down swiftly. He disappeared and appeared at the side of his next opponent and carried on seamlessly. Finn and Maven fought beside him, grim determination edged into their faces. Meanwhile, fueled by his Gift, Marcus yanked the chain taut witha mighty heave as the lead horses screamed and reared, crashing the wagon sideways. All the horses were now panicking, threatening to draw the fallen wagon away. However, without the guidance of a driver, they all pulled in different directions, trampling and rearing chaotically, rolling their eyes and neighing wildly. They jerked the wagon randomly around but didn’t make it far for lack of a unified effort, crashing into each other.
Having run to the transport vehicle, Marcus drew his axe and split it from the horses with an otherworldly blow on the wagon’s tongue. He held the horses while simultaneously slashing their harnesses to let them spring apart, sending them running off together in a thunder of hooves. In other circumstances, Alina would have gaped open-mouthed at that display of impossible strength. He found her gaze and shouted to her: “Now!”
Suddenly, as if a lever had been thrown, time slowed to a stop and her senses became unnaturally heightened: sound separated, each one clear and distinct. She felt the sensations on her skin in singular precision; the freezing, crisp morning air flowing over her skin where it was exposed, the closing of every pore against the cold, the rush of blood to her reddening cheeks. The ballet of the fight was suspended in time, swords in the moment of impact on a body, faces in grimaces of strain, concentration and blood-lust, glistening drops of sweat and blood glittering frozen in mid-air. Alina’s hands began to shake—not with fear, but with anticipation—and half a heartbeat later everything resumed its normal pace and the chaos of the fight raged on.
She called the power. It came sluggish at first, then brightened, a fizz in her chest that chased out the numbness. Her vision sharpened, making every line and shadow a thousand times clearer. She could see each blade of grass bend under the fighters’ boots,the way the mud splattered up the back of the driver’s coat. She raised her hands, just as Elara had taught her—fingers curved, palms open, the shape of it more important than the intent. In the space between her hands, a shimmer began to form: a thin, nearly invisible haze, the way heat ripples above a candle.
She remembered Elara’s sneer: “It’s not about what you want. It’s about what you allow.” She let go, allowed the Gift to bloom, and the haze thickened into a curved barrier in front of the wagon, shielding Marcus from danger while he was working on it.
A guard broke formation and hit it at full sprint. There was a sound like a bowstring snapping and then he was flung backwards, arms pinwheeling. He landed hard on the ground, and did not stir. A second guard, slower, saw what had happened and drew up short, only to catch a third arrow from Seraphina. Blood sprayed through the air in a fine, brilliant mist, smearing across Alina’s shield.
Alina’s hands trembled. She held fast, sweat breaking out along her scalp, though the air was cold enough to bite. She was aware, distantly, of Kael fighting: the way he moved was almost choreographed, a blur of feint and strike and pull. In the corner of her eye she watched him take down one, two, three men, his dagger moving in perfect counterpoint to their swords.
Marcus, meanwhile, had vaulted the toppled wagon and was hauling the driver out by his scarf. He looked, impossibly, like he was at home, as if bar brawls and bloodshed were just part of a day’s honest work.
In the chaos, Alina’s focus wavered. A shout, close and desperate, broke her concentration. One of the guards had spotted the source of the shield and came running at her, sword drawn. Alina panicked, lost the thread, and the shimmer vanished. Sheducked instinctively, and the sword skimmed past her shoulder, slicing open the wool of her jacket but missing flesh. She spun, fists up, and channeled every ounce of terror and fury into a single, wild blast of force.
The guard staggered, then crumpled, eyes rolling back. Alina heard, rather than saw, the wet snap as his body hit a tree. She stared, stunned, at what she had done.
From somewhere behind her, Kael called out. “Alina! Are you—?”
She nodded, unable to speak. Her mouth was full of iron.
More guards were coming, at least four. One of the guards cut the remaining horses loose, and the soldiers regrouped behind the wagon, laying down a volley of crossbow bolts. Marcus hunkered behind the upturned lead wagon, cursing as one of the bolts thudded into the wood near his ear. Seraphina had moved, the next arrow coming from an oblique angle, catching another guard in the thigh and sending him down screaming.
Alina wiped her palms on her legs, and tried to re-form the shield. This time it came easier—her body remembered what it was to channel, the pain and the surge of it. She raised both hands and imagined a wall, taller than a man, wider than the road. The haze appeared, shimmering, and the next volley of bolts hung for a split second in the air before clattering to the ground.
She could not hold it forever. Already her arms ached, her muscles twitching with every heartbeat. Her vision tunneled, black creeping in at the edges.
Kael reached her with a hand pressed to her back, steadying her. “Just a little longer,” he said. His voice was soft, private, as if they were the only two people in the world.
She held the shield, gritting her teeth, while Kael and Marcus finished the rest. When the last guard fell, Kael gave the signal—a sharp, two-note whistle. Seraphina dropped from the tree, graceful as a cat, and landed beside them.
Alina let the shield dissolve. She gasped, dropped to her knees, and retched.
The air was thick with the smell of blood and upturned earth. Beyond the labored breathing of the living and the distant sound of birds, already returning, the forest was silent.
Kael crouched beside her, concern furrowing his brow. “You did it,” he said. “You held.”
She did not know if she wanted to laugh or cry. Her hands shook so badly she could not uncurl them as she looked up at Kael. The sun had finally reached the treetops, catching the gold in his eyes.
“We’re not done,” Marcus called from the wagons. “There’s more coming. Fast.”
“Princess Alina!”
Alina would have known that voice anywhere.
Her head snapped in the direction of the voice, and she froze. Her stomach bottomed out. Her heart beat like a drum in her ears. Lord Rowan was approaching on horseback, flanked by several other riders. Behind them, the rest of the supply train was rumbling into view. He was impeccable as ever, not a hair out of place, posture perfect and the embodiment of courtly manners.They slowed down, approaching the rebels. Kael and the others moved closer, clustering round Alina.
Lord Rowan stopped and stared at her with a long, leveling look.
“Look at you,” he said slowly, his words ice cold. “What are you doing? Playing rebel? Running around in rags, letting this riff-raff lead you into crime and treachery?” He looked at her with a mixture of contempt and pity and shook his head, pausing to let her think. “Do you know what your parents are going through? Your poor mother weeping endlessly, a ghost of her former self. Your father wounded to his very core. The Realm without an heir. Where is your sense of duty?” He paused again, as if expecting an answer. “I thought I taught you better.”
