Chaosdescendsonthecamp. Men scramble, some with hands poised to attack, others with fists clenched in hesitation. Even now, with my second ability revealed, their wide eyes stare at the battered man behind me.
They think I’m weak.
They think I’m not a threat.
The air hisses as I summon water from the soil, from the mist, from the very breath of the storm—shaping it into a towering tidal wave. A sharp flick of my wrist, and it crashes into the unprepared warriors.
Father raises a hand. Effortlessly, the wave parts around him, flowing past his body as if he’s the eye of the storm itself.
The sky groans above us, clouds pulsing with fury.
I don’t hesitate. I lash another whip of water straight for his chest.
Behind me, Zev coughs, hacking up congealed blood and bile.
The warriors gain their bearings, realizing that, princess or not, perhaps theyshouldattack me. Three whips of water nearlyslam into my torso before I’m able to freeze them and send them flying back at the wielders.
A rough scrape of wood behind me.
A heavy thud. Ragged, labored breaths.
The wood creaks as Zev bears his weight on a post, attempting to stand on his feet after days of being bound and beaten. Warriors close in, their movements sharper now—more urgent. Until now, they hadn’t truly been trying to harm me.
But that’s quickly changing.
Sorka keeps his eyes on Zev, hands raised and ready, though he doesn’t attack. Not yet. There’s something unreadable in his eyes as they flit between me and my father—tension bracketing his jaw, hesitation in his stance.
Vy bursts from the tent, panic etched across her face. She says something to the general, but he shakes his head and pushes her back inside.
“Get the king to safety!” Sorka calls, whirling and pointing to a cluster of warriors. They snap into motion.
I hurl an ice shard toward them, but a larger icicle slices it midair, scattering tiny, glittering pieces across the dirt. Four warriors flank my father, lifting him onto a horse before mounting up beside him.
And then they vanish into the trees, swallowed by shadows.
The remaining warriors advance, sculpting water into frozen spears and jagged shards aimed straight for us. Behind them, nonwielders loose a volley of arrows—some I barely deflect in time.
Sorka steps forward again. Whether to stop them or join them, I can’t tell. But then Vy’s hand shoots out from the tent, grabbing his arm and yanking him inside. Her cool eyes lock with mine. The message is clear.
Sorkais her favor.
My hands tremble as I fight—strike, defend, strike, duck—each movement fueled by panic and fury.
The warriors advance.
“Zev,” I call behind me, chancing a glance back.
He doesn’t answer—he’s doubled over, hands braced on his knees.
A shard of ice skims my cheek, leaving behind a bright trail of pain.
“Shit!” I whirl around, raising another wave of water and catapulting it toward the encroaching men.
“Zev!” I call again, my voice rising higher.
“I’ve been strung up for a week,” he rasps, his voice hoarse. “Give me a fucking minute.”
The rhythmic splash of water and scraping of ice bombards my ears as I struggle to block their attacks. My breath cleaves my lungs as some of the warriors dart behind the platform, poised to attack from behind.
