A wicked smile curves his lips. “Try me.”
“You cannot seriously mean to keep me chained when rebels are about to ambush us,” I snap, shoving my hands into his chest. “Get me out of these fucking things.”
He mutters something beneath his breath, too low for me to catch, then surprises me by pulling a key from his cloak. Withanother quiet curse, he unlocks the chains. The metal drops away, and with it, my panic. Cool sea air brushes over my reddened skin, and for a moment, I can breathe.
Then the chain rolls across the path and slides over the cliff’s edge.
I go still. Taliesin’s jaw tightens. The metal strikes the rock, echoing all around us.
“Well, fuck,” Taliesin mutters.
A shout erupts below. Boots thunder on stone. Some come from ahead, some from behind. The sound builds until it feels like the cliffs are closing in around us.
Cursing, Taliesin shoves me behind him, pinning me between his body and the rock face. My hands tremble as I draw my dagger. He glances over my shoulder, catching sight of it.
“Do you know how to use that?” he asks.
“In the most basic sense, yes.”
“Give it to me.”
I pull it closer instead, pressing into the rock. The shouts are nearer now. Any moment, we’ll be surrounded.
“Give it to me,” he repeats, checking the path over his shoulder. “And I swear I won’t let them take you.”
“What about your magic? And your sword?”
His jaw hardens. “Just give me the fucking dagger, Swynwraig.”
I don’t know what possesses me to obey. Maybe it’s the four cloaked figures rushing down the path behind him. Maybe it’s the burn rising in my throat. Or maybe it’s the look in his eyes. There’s something about it that makes me believe he’ll protect me, at least from this.
I pass him the dagger. Our fingers brush. A shiver sweeps across me, startling me, and I jerk back my hand. Whatever I thought I saw in his expression vanishes. Anger flashes in hiseyes, and he turns away again, drawing his sword and squaring his body toward the path.
The cloaked figures slow as they approach. The Order’s star emblem clasp rests in the hollows of their throat. Their tunics are woven from fine linens, their leather armor burnished smooth. I sniff the air, and the sweet scent of magic floods my senses. They look like the Order. They smell like the Order. And yet…my talisman didn’t recognize theirs.
Impossible.
Two Rhyfelwyr step ahead of the others, their swords drawn. They assess Taliesin carefully, keeping just beyond his reach. Tense silence stretches between us, and after a moment, they lean toward each other and whisper.
The exile’s body seems to hum with barely contained power.
“What do you make of this?” he murmurs over his shoulder.
“Rogues,” I say under my breath. “I thought they were a myth.”
Rebels are civilians who turn on the kingdom. They choose the brutality of the wilds over the Order’s protection, all to plot and scheme its destruction. No Swynwragedd have ever joined them. No Rhyfelwyr, either.
But there are stories of those who turn rogue. They carve their talismans from their bodies and run from their duties, disappearing into underground caverns and living under the feet of the Order they abandoned.
Some say the magic burns them out. Others claim it’s the weight of what they’ve done in the Order’s name. It haunts them, eats them up inside. And others insist they’re building an army. One day, they will rise up. And the people who once protected the kingdom will be the ones to bring it to its knees.
More rogues appear on our right flank. At least a dozen now surrounds us, too many for any one fighter. Even Osian would struggle against this many.
This isn’t the Order. It isn’t even the rebels, people I can understand. We have no idea what these rogues want from us. What do they eat, buried in their caverns? What do they become? What if…what if the worst stories are true about them?
I swallow, my heart pounding.Focus.If I could lure one close enough, I could kill him with my touch. But that would still leave eleven more.
A hooded Rhyfelwr steps closer.
