Today they’d crossed paths with Thorne Peacekeepers, enforcers of Vallenna’s law.
Thorne hadn’t hesitated.
They never did.
The soldiers responsible for this had already moved on, barking orders, dragging those still breathing to their feet, hands bound tight enough that their wrists bled.
Four of them for every one prisoner.
A sharp cry of pain snapped her attention away. She was on her feet in an instant, searching for the source of the noise, feet moving before her mind caught up. An older Hale man was on the ground, arm slashed badly by a raider who was trying to escape. The culprit barely made it three strides before a Peacekeeper moved faster than Kara could track – crimson magic flickering – and cut him down with a single strike of his blade. The raider hit the ground with a sickening thud, his blood seeping onto the cobblestones.
Kara looked away quickly, dropping to her knees as she reached the Hale man’s side, green cloak billowing around her, emerald tendrils of magic already wrapping around his arm.
“Hold still,” she said. “It’ll only take a minute.”
A soldier stepped towards her. “Healer. Out of the way. We’re still securing the prisoners.”
She didn’t even glance at him. “They seem secure enough to me.”
“That wound is superficial–”
“He’s bleeding. So I’m staying.”
“I said–”
“And I said I’m staying,” she said, watching with satisfaction as the torn skin knitted back together, her own arm tingling in response.
At least him, she could heal.
The soldier moved away, muttering darkly about healers getting themselves killed. One of his comrades spoke to him under his breath. “Commander said bring what’s left back to Thorne.”
Their commander.
That would be Thorne’s heir. The one who carved through battlefields, leaving corpses in his wake. Terrifying, some said. A hero, said others. Kara looked around her – the bodies, the blood – and a very different word came to mind.
Brutal.
“Karalynna,” a reproachful voice called.
Kara jerked her head up from the leather-bound textbook she was supposed to be reading. She hated being called Karalynna. Hated it even more the way her Uncle Darian said it. Laced with disappointment.
This time, she supposed he had a point.
She hadn’t been studying. Not at all.
The boy from Willowmere kept appearing in her mind. Covered in blood. Unmoving. Even though it had been nearly a month, she still carried it. Not that she could tell anyone. Her father had made his feelings on ‘emotional attachment’ clear years ago.
Uncle Darian stood at the doorway to the library, arms folded, face like stone. He wore a dark tunic and a long emerald cloak the same as hers. His once-black hair had now faded to a steel grey.
“You have been staring at the same page for ten minutes,” he said.
“I was–”
“The Autumnal Ball is in two weeks,” Darian cut across her sternly. “Your father believes you are not yet prepared.”
Kara’s cheeks heated. The Ball. It was all her family could talk about. She was well aware how important it was for her House that she attend, though she had no desire to. It was just another opportunity for her father to make her play for the crowd. To use her as a pawn.
Kara glanced around Hale Manor’s library as Uncle Darian began pulling out more scrolls, more books, piling them on the table in front of her. The oak-panelled walls were lined with portraits of previous Hale lords and ladies, watching her and, she was quite sure, disapproving. The familiar scent of dust and old parchment hung heavy in the air. She eyed the setting sun out of the high windows. Another full day in here, then. Apparently, being a fully trained healer wasn’t considered knowledge enough, not if you couldn’t recite the histories of Vallenna’s eight Houses from memory.
