The last time they’d met, the girl had brandished both steel and an actual torch, yet still she’d failed. She’d fail now, too.
Geneva galloped toward them. When she was a good six horse lengths away, the Otsakumea shouted, “Let’s talk!”
The Warlord halted—she couldn’t pass up a good verbal sparring contest—and tilted her chin toward Amarande. “That isn’t what my daughter wants to do.”
“You’re killing innocent people, Mother! Of course, talking is not what I wish to do!”
Well now, that deserved a chuckle. So righteous. “Sendoa’s girl. Such a high opinion of protecting life. Unless it gets in the way of what you want. Isn’t that the truth?”
Amarande looked like she might spit.
Waste all your saliva, child.
“Much like my daughter, I don’t want to talk, wolf cub. I merely want to stake you through.The Torrentis mine. Your people are mine. Look, they’re already turning upon you.”
Geneva held her arms wide, the entire battlefield in her purview, the firepit really roaring now, at her back. Even with her fine display and showmanship, the stubborn little wolf did not turn to check for traitors, nor did her daughter.
“Torrenceis not yours,” he answered. “It will not back away from a challenge and neither will I. Let us fight.”
Luca raised his sword, and Amarande adjusted her stance from a protective guard to a sturdy attack. Twin blades locked in, jaws set, gazes unflinching, they awaited her. As if she would slide from her horse to duel the two of them.
Honor did not matter much when one had a wealth of advantage.
No, she would slice him down—and Amarande would fall to pieces in the process.
In answer, Geneva let out a precise throaty call—one loud enough to be heard over the chaos by those who knew it would be coming. In an instant, a dozen armed riders descended upon her location. They’d been close at hand, waiting for this exact moment.
The riders provided both protection for their Warlord—covering Geneva’s flanks—and also acted as a snare, encircling the wolf cub. Suddenly he was surrounded on all sides by warriors armed to the teeth with Basilican steel.
Luca and Amarande stayed calm on the surface, though they spun about, registering the new adversaries as the black wolf bared its teeth. Geneva nudged her horse forward, and the circle of men and women followed suit.
Six horse lengths became five as the snare shrank.
“You put up a fine fight in defeating my proxy, wolf cub. I’ve heard all about it from those who survived. But a few minutes of trickery and chaos does not build an empire nor defeat one. One battle did not end the Warlord’s reign, but it will end yours.”
Five horse lengths became four.
Three.
Amarande and Luca were back to back, swords raised to strike. The black wolf growled now, deciding upon one of the men closest to the firepit as her mark.
The snare tightened to two horse lengths between each rider and the pair of lovers at the heart of the circle. Tight enough that there was naught but a sliver of space between each rider. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
Geneva set her sights upon Amarande.
“Darling daughter, my quarrel is not with you. Thus, now is the time to make your choice. Say the word and I will allow you to leave. If you stay and fight I cannot guarantee you will survive. Blades in close quarters tend to find any flesh available.”
Amarande was as stubborn as sand grains in sweaty stockings, but something compelled Geneva to relay the real and present danger. She meant it when she admitted to Alasne that she could not kill her daughter. But the fighters at her flanks did not have that hesitation.
The slant of the girl’s eyes only sharpened. Her blade reset, strong and true.
“Mother, you told me you wanted to win. To win, you need Luca.” With one decisive step, Amarande planted herself directly in front of the boy. “If you want Luca, you’ll have to go through me.”
It was a dare. Amarande had called her bluff. Geneva saw it in those eyes so like her own. Amarande was betting her mother would not harm her. That she could not—would not—render a killing blow to flesh she’d made, spill blood that was her own.
Geneva dropped her head back and released the type of ferocious scream that would ensure the people ofthe Torrentwould turn to see the end of their new beginning in real time.
Before the wailing sound was out, she dug her heels into her horse’s flanks, and it reared—good for even more attention. As all four of the stallion’s hooves returned to the sand, Geneva steadied herself before digging her heels in for a charge, one sword stowed and one sword out, pointed straight at the wolf cub, standing tall at Amarande’s back. Not hiding. His free hand was in motion, grabbing for Amarande’s waist, to pull her back and away, behind his body—
