“Scout.” I speak against her ear, keeping my voice below a whisper. “The pack will be close.”
“How close?”
“Minutes. Maybe less.” I pull back enough to meet her eyes. “We need to move. Now. Off the ley-road, into the broken terrain. They’ll have trouble coordinating in the ice formations.”
She nods. No argument. No hesitation.
We slip from cover and move.
The broken terrain between ley-roads is treacherous—fractured ice, sudden drops, visibility limited by frozen fog. But the same features that make it dangerous for us make it dangerous for the hounds. They can’t coordinate effectively when the line of sight is limited. Can’t surround prey when the terrain doesn’t allow flanking maneuvers.
I lead us through the maze at the fastest pace I dare. Every turn, I watch the flanks. Every decision shaves margins for her first.
This is what she’s done to me.
This is what I’ve let her do.
And I find, as we move through the hunting dark with the Arbiter’s creatures closing in, that I don’t want it any other way.
The howl comes from behind us. Then to our left. Then to our right.
The pack has found our trail.
“Tyr—”
“Move.” I grab her hand and pull her into a run. “Stay close. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”
We run.
The ice maze swallows us. The howls echo from every direction, bouncing off frozen surfaces until the pack seems to be everywhere and nowhere at once. I navigate by instinct, by the subtle pull of my power against divine magic, by the desperate calculation that one wrong turn will funnel us into a kill zone.
We burst from the maze into a clearing. An open space ringed by ice formations. Defensible ground if we can hold the chokepoints.
I skid to a halt, spinning to face the pursuit. “Get to the far side. Behind that formation.”
“I’m not leaving you to?—”
“Get behind cover and use the Veil. Tell me how many and from which direction.” I unsheathe the blade at my hip—ancient steel that’s tasted divine blood before. “I need your sight. Give it to me.”
She hesitates for a heartbeat. Then moves.
I turn to face the maze’s edge. My dragon surges toward the surface, scales rippling beneath my skin like shadows seeking light.
Hunt.
The first hound bursts through three seconds later. I meet it with steel and my power, interrupting the divine magic that holds it together mid-leap. The hound shatters instead of reforming, ice shards spraying across the frozen ground.
The second comes from the left. The third from the right.
“Four more,” Zephyra calls from behind me. “Two circling to flank, two holding at the eastern approach.”
“Flankers first.” I move to intercept, putting myself between the circling hounds and her position. “Call their approach.”
“Fifteen feet. Ten. They’re?—”
They come through the chokepoint in tandem. Coordinated. Professional killers made of ice and malice.
I kill them both.
