Cold night air slammed into me as I headed out the back of the kitchens and into the cobblestone streets. Pulling on my cloak, I slid my short knife into its sheath on my belt.
My laced boots left footprints in the snow, my breath tearing out in clouds. The wind smelled like smoke and frost, and the moon hung high and bright above the slanted rooftops, casting long shadows across the snow. The tavern became a dull roar behind me as I approached the woods that would lead to Edith and my hut.
A large hand closed around my wrist.
2
On reflex, I twisted my wrist sharply, breaking the hand’s grip and spinning toward my attacker.
The hooded man from the tavern.
My dagger was already out, flashing against the snow and streetlamps flickering above.
The man’s lips curved into a slow, infuriating smirk as he raised his hands, as if in surrender.
“Go on, then,” he taunted.
“Don’t tempt me.” I extended the dagger so it gleamed brightly.
His body moved like a coiled spring, legs sweeping out, hooking behind mine and yanking me off-balance. He twisted his hips, spinning us both until I landed against the side of one of the trees lining the edge of the forest. The bark bit into my back, the impact showering snow onto my hair and face from the branches above.
The dagger flew from my hand, the collision knocking the air from my lungs.
The man pinned me against him, his weight solid and unrelenting, as he caught my wrists in one hand, forcing them above my head.
“Regretting that mercy now?” he said, his breath loud in the quiet night.
“Let me go,” I snapped. My wrists strained against his grip, but I refused to flinch, meeting his scorn with a glare of my own.
He did as I asked, releasing my hands, though still caging me in with his sheer size.
I checked for my ribbons and coins. They were where I’d left them. Not a pickpocket, it seemed.
I inspected him carefully as I stood.
He was probably only a few years older than I was, in his mid- to late twenties. A strong cut to his cheekbones, a glint in his cold blue eyes, a curl of disdain on his lips. He had a mane of bronze hair framing his striking face.
I knew him, I realized. Or at least knewofhim, the ghost of familiarity pulling at my gut torun.
Blake Axefire: the Ambush Master.
One half of the king’s dreaded, ruthless killers, the Twin Blades.
Born of steel, baptized in blood.
He was a Zenith, a magic user so powerful that only a handful were born each generation. As Ambush Master, he was also the leader of the king’s lethal Tyger Warriors. The brutal enforcer of the king’s will, he tore apart Ironstorm strongholds and slaughtered Azures ruthlessly.
And for some reason, he’d tracked me down.
I shivered but kept my voice nonchalant. “Is this what the great Ambush Master does to amuse himself in his free time? Assault innocent women in the night?”
Something dark flickered in Blake’s eyes. “You attackedme.Though I’m not surprised you’ve already conveniently forgotten that detail, Azure,” he murmured, the words edged with warning.
“Oh, choke on iron—”
“You seduce half the tavern, then head home alone? Are you intentionally daft, or is all that hair weighing down your brains?”
“I can handle myself just fine. I don’t need an escort.”
