“Fuck.” Hans materializes on my other side, his medieval knight costume suddenly looking less theatrical and more practical. The chainmail across his chest could actually stop a blade, and the sword at his hip isn’t a prop. “We are very outnumbered, Boss.”
Another crossbow bolt shatters the glowing mushroom beside Cordelia’s head, spraying phosphorescent spores across her silver dress. She doesn’t scream or run like the other civilians. She just crouches lower, waiting for instructions.
“Go! Now!” I shout to her. I turn to Ash, “What about the residents?” I ask, already knowing the answer will complicate everything.
“Dame Gothel’s getting people out through the old logging road,” Ash reports, calm despite the gunfire now echoing through the trees. “But they’ll need time.”
Time we don’t have. The Crow are advancing in a coordinated pattern, driving people away from the paths that lead back to town. They’re herding us toward the heart of the clearing where the scattered trees provide cover but no escape routes.
I pull my axe from beneath my coat, the familiar weight settling into my palm like coming home. “How long can we hold them?”
“Long enough,” Hans says, but it seems he’s not fully convinced.
My plague doctor mask lies somewhere in the chaos behind me as I scan the tree line, forgotten the moment the first bolt flew. The Crow are positioned to cut off every escape route. Professional killers using a magical forest celebration as their hunting ground.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
“There!” Ash points toward a figure stepping into the clearing’s edge. “Brutus.”
Brutus “The Beast” Crow steps into the clearing, and I remember why they call him the Beast. He’s massive—six and a half feet of muscle and scar tissue wrapped in tactical gear. The man looks ready for war, which makes sense considering the circumstances.
The gunfire stops with the sudden finality of an orchestra conductor dropping his baton. Brutus raises his hand, and every Crow in the forest freezes in position. Discipline like that comes from years of working together, of trusting absolutely in your leader’s judgment.
We’re fucked.
“Blue!” Brutus booms across the clearing. “I hear you’ve been redecorating with my people. You need serious fucking help, my man. I thought I was sadistic but you...”
I step away from the tree, axe loose in my grip. “Brutus. Should have known you’d show up eventually.”
“Couldn’t let you have all the fun.” His laugh is exactly as unpleasant as I remember. “But I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.”
Brutus gestures to his men positioned throughout the forest. “We’ve got you completely surrounded. No way out except through us, and there’s a lot more of us than there are of you.” He pauses, apparently enjoying his moment of tactical superiority. “But I’m feeling generous tonight.”
“Generous how?”
“Fair fight. You, me, and whoever wants to dance. No guns.” Brutus pulls a massive machete from his belt, the blade gleaming in the mushroom light. “Just steel and skill. Old school.”
Hans steps up beside me. “Boss, this is obviously trap.”
“Of course it’s a trap.” I don’t take my eyes off Brutus. “But it’s the only chance we’ve got.”
Ash appears on my other side, and I notice he’s somehow acquired a knife that clearly was designed for killing rather than cake decorating. “What are the terms?”
“Simple,” Brutus calls back. “Last man standing wins. You kill us all, you walk away. We kill you...” He shrugs. “Well, we’ll make it quick. Professional courtesy.”
I consider our options, which is a short mental exercise since we don’t have any. Twenty trained killers versus the three of us and a forest full of panicking locals. The math isn’t encouraging.
Years of murder sobriety, gone in an instant. But if this buys Saylor and Wren time to get away, if this keeps her alive, then it’s worth it. Peter asked me to protect his daughter. Hans is willing to die for that promise. The least I can do is break my sobriety.
“Deal,” I call back.
Brutus grins, the act transforming his scarred face into something genuinely terrifying. He makes another hand signal, and suddenly every Crow in the forest steps into view. They’re not carrying guns anymore—just blades. The message is clear: They’re going to carve us apart piece by piece.
“Gentlemen,” I say quietly to Hans and Ash, “it’s been an honor.”
“Likewise, Boss,” Hans replies, testing the weight of his sword.
