It does.
Rythar pivots and sets me down by a thick tree trunk. His body blocks the entire world. I have a perfect view of his back as he squares off against the threat.
I peek through the gap between Rythar’s arm and his body as they emerge from the underbrush.
There are at least ten of them. All as big as the guards from before, but meaner. Their armor is black and bone, marked with red bands.
The leader steps forward, teeth bared. His eyes linger on me, then flick to Rythar.
Rythar barks a word in Xythean. I don’t know the word, but the meaning is clear enough. He doesn’t want them here.
The leader grimaces, tossing a dagger from hand to hand.
Rythar answers with a low growl, more animal than human.
I flatten myself against the tree, pulse pounding in my head. Sudden movement from above makes me flinch, but I’m grabbed so fast that I don’t have time to dodge. Vines whip around me, hauling me upward so fast I feel my stomach drop.
My brain screams—ambush,predator,this is how Xytheos kills you.
Despite my squeak of surprise, Rythar doesn’t glance at me. Rather than the choking I expected, the vines hold me firmly without pain. I’ve got a bird’s-eye view of what’s going on below.
The men advance.
Rythar draws two knives from his back, hooked and gleaming. They look heavy, but he flips them like scalpels.
The first attacker lunges.
Rythar sidesteps, catches the man by the wrist, and snaps it sideways. I flinch as the sound travels. He rams the heel of his hand into the attacker’s jaw, sending teeth and blood spraying.Then he slides the knife up, under the chin, and out the top of the skull. The body goes limp before it even hits the ground.
The next two come together, one with a spear, the other with a net. Rythar ducks the net, slices it to ribbons, and throws the shredded end into the spearman’s face. Blinded, the man staggers. Rythar buries a blade in his chest, then rips it free, flicking blood into the air.
A third swings an axe. Rythar meets it with his forearm, lets the blade gouge his skin, then grabs the attacker’s throat and squeezes until his eyes bulge. He lifts the man off his feet, crushes his windpipe, then tosses him aside.
Four down.
The jungle floor comes alive—roots trip the attackers, vines snare their legs. I watch as Rythar fights. When he moves, this world moves with him. The plants are obeying him.
The remaining six hesitate.
Rythar’s roar is so loud that it shakes leaves from the trees. He leaps, clearing the space in a single bound, and lands among them.
There’s no finesse, no flourish. He is a storm.
When it’s over, all ten are very, very dead.
Rythar stands over the carnage, chest heaving. He doesn’t look at the bodies. He looks at me.
I stare, frozen. I’ve seen death before, but this is something else.
The vines lower me down, and I’m left frozen on the ground.
I don’t move. I don’t blink. My mind locks into old war footage—screams, blood, the smell of panic. I thought I left those ghosts behind. Turns out I only buried them.
Rythar kneels beside me, his shadow swallowing mine. He is streaked with blood, but his hands are gentle as he cups my chin and turns my head, checking for injury.
“I’m fine,” I say. But I’m shaking hard.
He looks me over quickly. There’s no blood that’s mine. He grunts and stands.
