“I’ll have to summon lightning,” Zev says quietly as we exit the command center.
“I know. I’m ready.”
Zev rounds up his team, the largest of the four, men and women with solemn faces staring at him. Rain pelts our faces, turning the ground into muck beneath my bare feet.
“Many of you have faced me in battle,” Zev says, his voice hard. “Tonight, I fight beside you. If you can’t stomach that, then leave. Now.”
No one moves.
“Good. This woman”—he points to me—“is your future. Protecting her is everyone’s top priority. Understood?” I shoot him a scathing look but don’t say anything. Now’s not the time to undermine him.
The rebels all nod.
Zev raises a fist.
“Move out.”
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Throughthechaos,orderslowly takes shape. Zev, a storm in motion, barks out commands with practiced authority, dividing the rebels into groups of six. Four teams disperse in different directions, each assigned to sweep for intruders, secure fallen zones, or reinforce collapsing defenses.
We join the eastern patrol, skirting the outer edge of the camp. My eyes dart between trees, over rooftops, around crumbling barricades—searching for anything that doesn’t belong.
As we near the eastern wall, the sounds of battle sharpen—shouts, the clash of steel, the low groan of twisting roots. A group of earthwielders engages in brutal combat with a handful of rebels. Thick vines writhe from the soil, slamming into stone and limbs alike.
My heart skips when I spot a flash of Tumaas’s dark braids, whipping like cords as he ducks low, slicing through a vine with his blade. Beside him, Mona crouches behind the remains of a shattered wall, eyes narrowed in focus.
A sharp twang.
An arrow whistles through the air and strikes one of the earthwielders square in the chest. He topples backward with a grunt, his roots withering mid-attack.
Tides. Mona is a terrifyingly good shot.
Zev and I join them.
Tumaas reads the frantic question on my face. “Sura’s fine. Not a scratch on her. Sent us back out to be useful. She said she’d disown me if I ‘shame’ her.”
I loose a breath I’d been holding since the building fell on me.
An arrow whizzes between us, narrowly missing our faces.
“Enough chatter!” Zev snaps at us, his sword already embedded in the shooter’s chest.
We fall into formation.
Water arcs through the air. Freezing. Choking. Killing.
The clang of swords, the waning groans of the dying.
Some of our men die, too, but every time I cast out my panicked gaze, I find Zev, Tumaas, and Mona. Still standing. Still fighting.
At least twenty corpses litter the ground when we’re done.
My reserves are perilously low. Zev and I share another chunk of bread while Tumaas and Mona catch their breath.
“Here,” Zev says, tossing half a loaf at Tumaas. He scrambles to catch it in time, eyeing Zev with suspicion. Mona’s eyes are wide as she stares at the bread.
If I weren’t already hopelessly in love with Zev, I certainly am now.
