And then—a sound stirs the silence.
Faint footsteps.
“Stay here,” he whispers. “Nod so I know you’ll listen.”
He doesn’t remove his hand.
I nod, lips skimming his calloused palm.
He vanishes in a heartbeat, swallowed by the trees. Then—there. I catch sight of him in the underbrush. A crouching shadow beneath the thicket, a waiting predator.
We don’t wait long.
Six men emerge into the clearing. They’re dressed for battle—dark leather and sheathed swords.
Rebels.
“—believe she did that?” one of the men cackles. “I thought the poor man would faint.”
“Mona’s a firecracker,” another man agrees, slapping his portly companion on the back. The other men chuckle in agreement.
They march past Zevayr.
Maybe they’ll keep going. Maybe they won’t see us at all.
Step after step, the men move on, and I exhale a relieved sigh. Still, I don’t so much as twitch. They’re almost gone when—
A sharp whistle echoes through the clearing.
Once, twice, and then a third, long note.
The rebels halt in their tracks.
“Would you look at that, boys?” the portly man announces. “Some sneaky bastards are hiding.”
Before even a whisper of fear can breathe down my spine, Zevayr thunders toward them, sword poised to deliver death. The men fumble for their weapons, but he’s faster—one man drops lifeless before steel even clears their scabbards, a dagger jutting from his neck.
The clash of metal echoes through the trees. Zevayr is a violent storm, his sword a flash of lightning as he blocks and parries before delivering death blows.
Another man falls to the ground.
Four left.
Realization jolts through me—fivemen left.
Whoever whistled—whoever alerted the rebels—must be above us, somewhere with a clear view. I creep forward on silent steps, scanning the trees. Nothing stirs. Only a sea of leafy branches, concealing more than they reveal.
A sharp grunt of pain jerks my gaze back to the fight. Not Zevayr—thank the Tides. Another man lies dead at his feet. He could end this in an instant, call down lightning and kill them all, but he holds back. He must not want to draw more attention.
Satisfied that Zevayr is holding his own, my gaze sweeps back to the trees. Minutes drag by before I spot him—the rebel tucked into the branches, his green and brown garb melting into the foliage.
My breath catches—he has a crossbow leveled at Zevayr.
And Zevayr doesn’t see him.
My legs move, unbidden.
A distant click, a sharptwang.
