Page 95 of Aryn

Footsteps thunder behind me—at least twenty, maybe more, from the quick look I got earlier. Their weapons clang together, and a few arrows hiss past, but the trees are too thick and we’re moving too fast for their shots to land.

This part of the forest is familiar. I hunted here years ago and gathered herbs among the roots. It’s as much a home as the village ever was, and I use the terrain to my advantage.

I cut sharply left, leaping over a fallen log and sliding down a steep, rocky embankment. My injured side screams in protest when I hit the bottom, fresh blood soaking through the rip in my coat, but I ignore the pain. Angry, confused voices shout behind me, telling the rest to fan out.

My pack has become a hindrance, adding weight and making me a bigger target, so I shrug it off and wedge it against a cluster of rocks. I listen to the movement above and press myself into the shadow of a massive boulder, blade already in hand.

Two of them drop into the valley with their backs to me. The first lands hard and grins in triumph when he spots the abandoned pack.

He never sees me coming.

I drive my knife up under his ribs, and the shock in his eyes is almost human as he twists toward me. I give the blade one brutal turn before yanking it free, and he drops without another sound.

The second one comes charging in with a roar I know the others will hear. A jagged axe swings at my head so fast I barely duck in time. The blade whistles past my ear and shaves snow off the rock beside me. I slash low across his hamstring, dropping him to one knee, then finish him with a quick thrust to the throat, but there’s no time to celebrate the kill.

Blood loss is catching up with me, fighting my adrenaline as I run. My vision tunnels at the edges and my legs grow heavier with every stride, but stubborn will keeps me moving. Cato’s face flashes through my mind—the honest look in those warm brown eyes when he promised he’d be mine, and the raw sound of him begging me to stay.

He’s ready.

He’s ready, and I have to get back to him.

My hands shake as I reach another thick cluster of trees. I scramble up the branches, gloved fingers digging into the bark and tail clinging for balance. Twenty feet up, I crouch on a sturdy branch and wait, breathing through my mouth to stay quiet.

From my perch, I catch movement through the trees. The group gets closer, with one at the center who seems to be the leader. Past the white paint on his face, his skin tone appears to be the deep red of a Bhotan, and he’s big enough to make it believable. A deep, jagged scar across his face distorts his features, pulling his mouth into a permanent sneer.

He shouts at the others to spread out and find us.

Us.

My fingers dig deeper into the branch as relief burns through the haze of blood loss. Cato and the others will be long gone by now, and they know to cover their tracks.

They’re safe.

I listen to the Viskari beneath me as they plan, fighting through my exhaustion to map and plot where they’ll be. They discuss strengths and weaknesses, where the best fighters will search, and how they’ll split whatever is in our packs.

They give me every piece of information I need, and none of them think to look up.

I bide my time as the group disperses, waiting until only two remain beneath me. I drop silently behind the largest one—a brutish male with a bow and quiver I intend to take for myself. My tail whips around his throat to cut off his scream as I drive my blade into the base of his skull. He jerks once and goes limp. I kick him forward, grab the bow, and notch an arrow as the second one spins toward me.

My vision is darker now, doubling at the edges as I release the shot. The arrow hits him in the thigh instead of center mass. I shake my head hard, trying to clear it, but he doesn’t give me the chance. He tackles me into the snow, his elbow slamming into my wounded ribs. White-hot pain explodes through me and I cry out, but it turns into a snarl as I headbutt him. His nose shatters with a wet crunch, and before he can recover, I slash his throat.

His weight crashes down on top of me as the world wavers. Everything goes dark for a moment and I realize my eyes have closed. Pain floods every part of me, shocking my system until it doesn’t obey my command to move. I dig deep for the last scraps of strength and roll him off, but my body feels impossibly heavy.

My eyes refuse to stay open.

Long blinks bleed into fuzzy pockets of silence, and gods, how I want to sleep.

More footsteps shake the ground. Another of them rushes me, sword swinging. I roll aside, but the tip catches my shoulder, tearing through muscle until it scrapes bone. I scream, no better than an animal myself as I paw desperately through the snow for my lost sword.

My fingers finally close around the hilt, and swing in a desperate slash. He stumbles, clutching at his belly. Blood pours down his front, pooling crimson in the snow at his feet. He drops to his knees, eyes wide and wild, trying to hold the wound closed as life drains out of him.

Seven seconds.

It takes seven seconds for him to hit the ground.

I fight to prop myself against a tree, struggling to breathe as blood pours from my wounds. The forest spins around me and voices are closing in. More are coming, but I have nothing left.

I need to hide.