20
The rain continues all through the night, and into the morning. By the time it ends, I’m cold to the bone. But my canteen is full. My throat is blissfully smooth.
My clothes slowly dry in the dappled sunlight. By midday, we find a forest that isn’t rotted, and my knees nearly buckle with relief. Especially when I find a single fertile bush bursting with berries. I pick every single one, cutting my fingers on the thorns, but I don’t care. I’m so desperate for food that I shove the fruit into my mouth. I wordlessly extend a handful to Raker, and he takes it.
It’s the only fruit for miles. I scour every tree, every bush, but there isn’t so much as a single mushroom. The woods empty out into a wide plain.
There’s a stream running through it. It’s almost clear, just a shade of gray— and our shelter for the night, by the looks of it.
I half expect Raker to leave me here without another word, but he slides into a defensive stance, showing me quickly. “Got it?” he says.
I nod. I slip into it, and he barks a few orders, a few fixes, then leaves with his things, ducking into the woods.
I hold the position for as long as I can. When hours pass without Raker resurfacing, I begin to alternate through all the stances he’s shown me. The sword feels looser in my hand. More fluid.
Just as I think I could take on Harlan Raker himself, I stumble forward,
nearly dropping the sword. Fuck.
A laugh sounds behind me.
I spin on my heel.
Two immortals—no more than children—are standing there, watching me. Tossing the coin I emptied from my pocket to train.
“Hey!” I yell, and they don’t run, or set it down. No. They have the nerve to look amused. “That’s mine!”
They don’t even stop throwing it back and forth. It’s as if I haven’t
spoken at all.
“I have a sword!” I bellow, lifting it.
One of the boys snorts. “Yes, and by the looks of it, you can’t even use it.” My eyes narrow.
Enough. I take off toward them, but they’re across the clearing in a flash.
They’re laughing. Then they’re tearing through the forest, fast as lightning, turning to look at me instead of looking ahead and still somehow avoiding the branches, while also continuing their game.
I’m short by most standards, but I’m much taller than them. I have longer legs. Still, they are immortal, and I don’t have a chance of keeping up.
A growl escapes my lips as I listen to my coin clinking as it’s thrown between them, glinting beneath the sun. I worked hard to get that coin. I need it.
They make a sharp turn, and I throw myself through the brush, needles stinging, leaves clinging to my sweaty face.
But their steps have stopped. I would have thought they had climbed into the trees if I didn’t hear one of them say, finally, with a shred of shame, “We were just playing. We weren’t really going to take it.”
Raker. He must have caught them.
I lunge forward, feeling a little smug—then stop when I see another immortal standing at the center of the forest.
And she’s not a child. No, she’s a tall woman, with a bow on her back.
My breath hitches.
With superior speed, her eyes meet mine. The sharpness of her expression has me stumbling back—but it’s immediately replaced by a friendly, if not abashed, smile.
Still. She’s immortal. I have no clue where Raker is. And, as this child very helpfully pointed out, I can’t really use my sword yet.
I begin to retreat, my hands up, all but pleading that they please take my coin and have a very nice day.
“Don’t be afraid, human,” the immortal says.
I am still very much afraid, thank you. I take another step back.
She takes a step forward. “I apologize for my boys. They should never have taken from you.” With brutal speed, she looks back at the children, snarling.
At that look, they mumble apologies, clearly more afraid of their mother than the sword slung against my spine.
I can relate. I am also, in this moment, afraid of their mother and the glorious set of arrows that she wears.
The immortal woman frowns. Then, as if to calm my fears, she places the coin on a branch. “Here you are. Sorry to have disturbed you.” With another sharp look at the children, she begins to walk away. I watch her, pulse racing.
Only when she’s on the other side of the forest do I creep forward and roughly pocket my coin.
I’m about to turn to go when she says, voice projecting from yards away, “That knight. He won’t find much in these woods. We’re too close to the rot and mists for any large game to come near.”
She saw Raker. And she’s still alive, which means she likely didn’t try to attack him.
My stomach turns with hunger and sinking disappointment. So that’s why he hasn’t been back in more hours than usual.
Damn.
“We have food.”
I slowly look up at her. She might as well have told me she has the gods themselves, tied up and ready for me to slaughter.
“The village isn’t far. We could get you dinner for the night.” My stomach lurches again. My mind becomes solely focused on the idea of something, anything, filling it, but still, I don’t make a single move, and she continues. “It would be the least I could do. In … apology for my sons’ actions.”
Why would an immortal even care about her children stealing from a human? I’m about to refuse, hoping I can find another fertile bush, but her gaze flicks up to the sky and the gathering clouds there. “It’s going to rain through the night. At the very least, let me offer you a roof. The local inn isn’t much, but—” Her words are unspoken, but I get her meaning. It’s better than sleeping outside in the downpour.
“Which way to the village?” I say.
We can’t trust immortals. But when Raker finally walks through the trees and hears the same offer, he must know as well as I do that we are in no position to turn down food and a roof.
We follow the immortal and her children through the woods, and I hope this isn’t just another mistake.
Raker doesn’t say a word during the walk to the village, even as the two boys zip around him, asking a thousand questions—about his sword, about his armor, about his size, about his hood and mask. His silence only seems to feed their fascination.
“Leave them both alone,” the woman says, her voice tired, like this is a regular occurrence. Them is a generous term, because, other than my coin, the boys don’t seem fascinated by me at all. They only want to see the knight.
“Are warriors not common?” I ask the woman, catching up to her pace.
At the very least, getting information is better than listening to the boys and their endless inquiries.
She glances over at me. Her features are sharp—and pretty. She has deep tan skin and dark hair tied low. “They are,” she says, mouth tightening into seriousness. “But the boys don’t see them.”
Interesting. I wonder what she means.
“Mother never lets us downstairs at night,” one of the boys loudly complains.
“I shouldn’t let you downstairs during the day if this is the trouble you find,” she says through her teeth.
The boy rolls his eyes and goes back to antagonizing Raker.
“Are children … are children common for immortals?” I ask after a
while.
“No,” she says simply. “They are not.”
I look over at her. At her weapon. “If large game isn’t found near here … what do you hunt?”
“These arrows are not for hunting game,” she says simply.
And with that, the hill crests, and I see the beginnings of a small village.
There’s a mill. Winding roads, and alleys, and buildings bunched together.
But that is not what my gaze snags on. It is not what makes a lick of fear
slide down my spine.
“What is that?” I breathe.
A forest sits just east of the village. At least, that’s what I think it is. The weave of white trees is nearly wholly blocked by a thick wall of mist.
“That’s the Bone Woods,” the woman says, not stopping. I unroot myself, to keep up. She doesn’t even look at it, and I wonder if it’s because of fear, or disgust, or the indifference of familiarity. “With its mists.”
Mists. One of the reasons she said Raker wouldn’t find much to hunt so
close by.
“And you … live on its fringes?”
“It didn’t used to be so close,” she says tightly. “Decade by decade, it creeps closer.”
I would ask why she hasn’t moved, but I understand, once we enter the village and a half dozen people nod at the woman and boys—before sharpening their gazes at us. They have a community here. A home.
The word hooks into a part of me and pulls behind my ribs. A mixture of sad and happy moments spill out from behind it.
I had a home, once.
I both mourn its absence … and celebrate the fact that I ever had one to begin with.
She stops in front of a small house with a painted wooden door that doesn’t quite fit its frame. There’s a large window, its glass glazed over by time. “Upstairs. Now,” she tells the boys, who scurry off, with some parting words for Raker that he, of course, does not reciprocate.
She shakes her head and leads us down the street, stopping at another home, this one with a few additional levels. She slips inside, then returns shortly with two keys. “Dinner will be brought up to you.”
Raker takes his key, nods, says his thanks, then slips through the door without another word.
“We really appreciate this,” I say when she hands me mine, and, with a tight smile, she steps back onto the bustling street.
The stairs are so narrow I wonder how Raker even got up them. The wood groans beneath my boots as I step into a small, comfortable room.
There isn’t a tub … but there is a bucket of water, a cloth, and soap. I sniff it … and no, it doesn’t smell anything like Raker’s.
I carefully remove my clothes before smoothing the wet rag over my skin. Then I begin to wash my clothing, piece by piece, in the bucket. The rain got off most of the grime, but I take my time with the soap. Washing and rewashing until it’s all clean. I hang them to dry by the fire, put one of
the bedsheets on the floor in front of it, and lie down, luxuriating in its warmth. I stare up at the ceiling. The walls are thin. I hear everything— from moving around, to people relieving themselves to … guests very aggressively enjoying themselves.
For some reason, that makes me think of Raker. I wonder what he’s doing in his room. Is it possible he’s found someone in this town? I think about the way he cut those trees down, how it released some of his frustration.
Does he need a release in another way?
What the fuck, Aris?
I shake away the thought. Raker seems like he would gut someone for even getting near him. And even if he did find someone to bed here, that is none of my business … A knock on my door has me jolting upright. By the time I open it, wrapped completely in a bedsheet, only a tray awaits. The smell of hot soup hits me, and I nearly fall to my knees. Bread. There’s bread.
I drag the tray inside and waste no time sinking to the floor and eating my dinner there, too hungry for anything resembling restraint. My hands tremble as I lift the bowl to my lips and drink.
The moment the hot liquid hits my stomach, it lurches, but I keep drinking, hoping I don’t make myself sick. I eat every bite of bread.
Then I lie on my back and enjoy the feeling of a slightly full stomach.
Hours pass like this, listening to the groaning of the inn, until hunger finds me again. I curse the fact that I don’t have another set of clothing, before putting mine back on—they’re mostly dry—and slowly making my way downstairs, coin in hand. I half expect to see Raker doing the same thing. I half hope to see him, just so I won’t have to eat alone.
A warrior is staring up at me as I take the last step. But it’s not Raker.
“Look what we have here,” a deep voice drawls. “A human.” He’s sitting with an entire table of immortal knights, all in gleaming armor. A half dozen empty glasses sit in front of them. Just my luck.
I ignore him as I walk to the bar. I drop my coin, and the redheaded barmaid barely spares me a look before taking it, returning with a pile of unfamiliar carved metal, then a bowl of steaming soup. My mouth waters when its smell hits me. I could devour the entire pot. I begin to eat, as the chair beside me groans under the weight of a fully armored immortal.
Fantastic.
I keep my eyes on my soup. My inattention only seems to make him more interested.
“What is a mortal doing so far on our side? So close to the mists?” A thought seems to occur to him, and he slams his hand down onto the bar.
“Right. The quest. It’s about that time now.” This close, I can smell the ale on his breath. He only gets closer. “Humans are so ugly. So blemished. But you … you’re one of the prettier ones.”
Wow, thanks, I think. I keep slurping my soup, hoping it will disgust him enough to leave me alone.
He doesn’t. He just studies me closer, ogling my body. I see the moment his gaze finally lands on my back. And the sword there. It took him a while, like he didn’t even entertain for a moment that I would have a weapon of value. His easygoing grin fades. “Say, how did a girl as spindly as you get a
sword like that?”
I sigh.
This is the best soup I’ve ever had. And he’s not letting me fucking enjoy it.
I gently place my spoon back into my soup. Slowly, I turn toward the annoying warrior. Voice sweet as honey, I say, “I won it when an immortal
idiot interrupted my dinner.”
The bar goes silent.
Shit. You know, I probably shouldn’t have said that. But I did, so I lift my chin and don’t let a hint of my instant regret reach my face.
A second passes. Another.
Then the grin returns. The immortal warrior puts his hands up, stands, but in his eyes I see the shadow of something like fury, that I would dare stand up to him. Me, an insignificant mortal.
Fuck. And I was trying so hard to be pleasant.
The bar doesn’t return to its full swing of conversation. I feel eyes on me as I finish the rest of my soup. Even the barmaid is looking at me with a mixture of respect and pity that tells me I picked the wrong knight to talk back to. All I want to do is go back to my room, lie in front of the hearth and pass out, but the group of warriors is still there. Still glancing over at me. I don’t want them to know which room I’m sleeping in.
So I leave the bar and slip out into the rain-slicked streets. I’m grateful when I don’t hear steps behind me.
It doesn’t take me long to reach the immortal woman’s house. The light is on. Through the weathered window, I see her sitting at a table, poring over a book, reading by the light of a few scattered candles.
Before I can think better of it, I rap my knuckles softly against the glass.
Her head lifts immediately. Her eyes are fierce and protective—and they only slightly soften when they see it’s me. For a moment, I wonder if she isn’t going to let me in. She seems to be leaning in that direction. Then, with a sigh, she stands and walks over to the door. Opens it.
“Has there been trouble?” she asks. Her eyes flit up, toward where the boys sleep, and I know she’s likely regretting potentially having brought danger to her door.
“No,” I say quickly. There wasn’t really trouble … I hope. “I couldn’t sleep.”
She frowns. “Right. I have something for that, actually, if you want to take it.” With more than a little trepidation, she moves to the side and lets me in. The moment I step inside, the heat of the hearth hits me. My shoulders drop. Tension leaves me, in a rush.
This … this feels like a home. A place worn down by memories. I can see them in the scuffs in the floorboards, in the scratches on the walls, in the sagging of certain cushions on the furniture, in the drained color of the carpet left near the window. The house is quiet. The boys are sleeping. But as I walk through to the living room, I can almost hear laughter stored in between the floorboards. This house wears its memories. Just like mine did.
Glass clinks as the immortal woman rummages through rows and rows of vials. She searches with deft fingers, a fold between her brows, until she produces a violet liquid. “There,” she says. She turns to me. “Open your
mouth.”
I blink at her.
She cocks her head at my hesitance. Her look says, If I wanted to harm you, I could have done it a long time ago.
It’s true. She was armed when we met, after all. And though I lied about why I’m here … my inability to sleep isn’t a lie at all. We have a long day ahead of us. My exhaustion could mean the difference between life and death.
I open my mouth. Two drops pierce my tongue.
Then she’s putting the vial away. I’m swallowing something that tastes faintly like flowers. “You’re … a healer.”
She nods.
It makes sense now. Why she would see knights often. And, judging from the behavior of the ones at the inn, it also makes sense why she would want to keep her children away from them.
She sits back down in her chair, the wood gently creaking. Then, a bit warily, she motions to the seat in front of her table, a simple stool. “The elixir will take a little while to work. Sit.”
Slowly, I do. She studies me. “You’re on the quest, then?”
I nod. No use in pretending otherwise. She looks me over. I wonder what she’s seeing. The undernourishment? The lack of any real, true muscle? The cuts already on my cheeks and hands?
“I assume … I assume you have a good reason” is all she says. A good reason for throwing myself into near-certain death for a cup of magic are the words she likely meant.
I can see in the shadow of concern on her face that she doesn’t think I’ll make it until the end. I can’t blame her.
But she can help me. If she’s a healer … if she knows about the mists, and the places beyond here … “What is the Bone Woods? Is it dangerous?” I know the map. Now I realize what the lightly shaded area is. It’s unnamed, and takes up a large swath of land. Going around it would take several days we don’t have.
Going through would be far easier … “It’s exactly what it sounds like. A forest made of bone. And yes. Very.
The mist is a prison. Housing creatures even the gods leave alone.”
The warm room seems to suddenly go cold. “Why?”
She lifts a shoulder. “They say they’re as old as the gods themselves.
Older, maybe. All I know is entire armies have gone into the mists … never to be seen again.”
That sounds like a legend. I’ve learned by now that anything on this side is possible. But if she’s right … What is powerful enough to do that, beyond
a god?
“Why go in at all, then?”
She purses her lips. I can see she’s weighing how much to say. How much to keep to herself. In the end, she must decide that I will likely die anyway, because she says, “There is a godsword in those mists.”
Godsword. That’s what Raker called the glowing crimson one, with the unsettling power.
“Which god’s sword?”
She shakes her head. “That I do not know. But heirs of Great Houses, and even gods themselves, have sent countless people inside looking for it.” She shrugs. “None of them return.”
My next question is dangerous. “Why don’t the gods go themselves?”
She just looks at me with her glittering violet eyes. I can see the simmer of something. She looks up. Not at the gods. At what she clearly cares about more—her children. Her words are measured. “The gods don’t put themselves in perilous situations. Not anymore.”
Not anymore? “Why?”
She shakes her head. I’m not sure if she’s saying she doesn’t know … or if she’s telling me she won’t answer. Not with her children in the house.
Does she think the gods can hear us? Can they?
There are various levels of commitment to the gods on Stormside nowadays. It’s hard to worship something we know almost nothing about, but some of the most reverent believe the gods see all.
I think they have better things to do than listen in on a conversation in the middle of a distant, mist-addled town.
Still, I move on. “The creatures in the mists … can they be found in other forests?” I remember Xara’s warnings about the dangers of different woods.
Several more sit between here and the Land of the Gods.
She dips her head. “There are more there, surely, but yes. Deadly creatures can be found almost anywhere. Most of the ancient ones have been slumbering, or keep to territories like the mists, but others … wander.”
Wander. I swallow, a chill blooming in my bones.
“What kinds of creatures?”
Her eyes meet mine. They are devoid of any humor, or anything but pure seriousness—and fear. “The kind that make even immortals wish for death.
The kind that grind your bones with their teeth and suck the soul from your body.”
I shift my weight in the chair. “How do you know so much about them?”
“Their venom is valuable. They can poison … but also cure. I trade with hunters who risk life and limb to hunt them down.” Hunters. Xara mentioned them, back in Westwere. She stands and strides toward shelves that slump in the middle. Her long, smooth fingers brush a dozen spines before she stops. The book she takes out has a leather cover creased with
age. Its parchment is yellowed. She flips toward the middle, then hands it, wide open, to me.
I take it carefully, the same way I would handle a sword in Stellan’s forge. Like I’m dealing with something rare and valuable.
It’s a book of beasts. The illustrations are meticulously made in various hues, the ink slightly glittering. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“Can I … can I stay and read this?” It’s too much to ask. She’s given me so much already. I prepare to be sent back into the rain.
But she just motions with her chin toward the hearth. A comfortable- looking chair sits in front of it. It has a cushion with a star stitched onto it.
“Go ahead.”
I gingerly take the book over. I sit. And … this feels like an indulgence, like the biggest luxury, to sit by the fire with a book.
I start at the beginning. I read quickly, to get through as much as possible, flipping through the pages, studying each image. Every description.
And I realize I don’t know anything about Starside. Not at all. Because the greatest weapons here are not swords—
They are beasts.
And some have magic.
Few can use it. Most have it buried in their bones, or scales, or claws, ready to be extracted and smelted into swords or made into medicines.
Those are the ones that are most hunted.
The others are the most feared. There are creatures that can turn into balls of flame, flying through forests, burning down entire woods in just minutes.
There are massive scorpions that can trigger earthquakes with flicks of their horned tails.
There are skeletal cats that can walk through objects, fading into shadows.
There are creatures like the immortal said, older than the seeds of this world, that can pry into minds and swallow souls.
Phoenix.
The word has my breath catching, remembering the last time Stellan
called me one.
It turns out there are several types.
There are storm phoenixes that form only during the worst downpours, crafted from lightning and thunder and wind.
There are ice phoenixes that melt into puddles, only to rise again.
There are— My eyelids suddenly feel heavy as iron. The words begin to blur. The sleep serum. It muddles my thoughts. Makes the letters melt together.
As my eyes slowly blink closed, I think that I have been traveling through Starside for weeks. I thought I saw the worst of it.
But this book has made it clear that I haven’t yet seen this world’s teeth.
A knock has me jolting awake, gasping.
“It’s just the rain,” a gentle voice says. “Not to worry.”
I’m still in the immortal’s house. The book is open in my lap. A thickly woven blanket has been draped over my shoulders.
I sit up, blinking, feeling both rested and drained. Morning light is starting to filter in through the window. I slept here all night. The immortal is still working.
I’m not on the floor … which means I didn’t have my nightmares. No. I slept deeply and calmly, for the first time in years.
Slowly, I get up. I fold the blanket and leave it on the chair. With a pang of sadness, I return the book too.
The immortal gives me a long look, before she ducks below her desk.
Glass gently clinks together. “The lord here is strict. I can’t spare much, but here.” She emerges with a handful of vials. “For all you find and collect on your journey.”
My throat tightens, knowing this woman doesn’t expect I’ll live much longer … but she’s giving me something so precious all the same.
“I really am sorry about the coin,” she says, as she walks me out of her house.
Rain whispers down the slanted cobblestones; it patters against aluminum rooftops. The rest of the village hasn’t woken up yet. Only the faintest light peeks through clouds so dense, they look like another wall of mist.
I wrap my arms around myself as I make my way down the quiet road. I miss the hearth already, and the comfortable seat, and the book. Something tells me I’ll never be that comfortable again. Certainly not during the Questral.
For a moment … for a moment, I could pretend like I belonged in a home like that. Like I had a home at all that was still standing.
Just before I take the turn to the inn, I pause. The hairs on the back of my neck go stiff. I look over my shoulder—but the road is empty.
It’s just that book, putting me on edge with all its talk of dangerous creatures, some of which slink through the holes in cobblestone walls and follow travelers. But it’s daytime. I have nothing to be afraid of.
Still, that strange feeling has me veering off the path, indulging my instincts. I go down a different alley instead, the rain masking my steps.
But not masking a voice.
“She just left. She should be here any second …”
A frustrated growl. “I’ve been waiting all fucking night. Cut her head off the moment she returns and be done with it. That sword …”
I step back, my veins like ice.
I shouldn’t have left my room. I should have remained there, quiet and unseen until the next morning. I know that now.
And I never should have mocked the knight. Regardless of how good it felt to do so.
I can’t return to the inn. I can’t go to Raker, though with his silence and general apathy toward me, I’m not sure he would even interfere.
One hand still on the damp stone wall of a closed shop, I turn toward the woman’s house … then stop myself.
They knew where I was before. They could easily follow me back. And the idea of bringing those knights to the immortal’s home … remembering how she looked up at the second floor, where her children slept … Remembering how I woke up with that blanket draped over my shoulders. That simple act of care … No. I won’t bring danger to her, so my only choice is to hide out somewhere else and hope they get tired of waiting for me. Hope Raker comes out of the inn sometime in the next hour, and I can reach him before the warriors reach me.
Using the rain as cover, I duck and turn down another road. The village is small. There aren’t many places to hide. I try different door handles just in case, but all of them are locked. I look for sheds, hovels, anything—but there’s nothing.
I turn another corner. There’s the slightest scraping behind me. A boot
against wet stone. I whirl around.
And there he is. The immortal warrior.
He grins.
I run.
My legs feel slightly boneless, as if they haven’t fully woken up. The elixir. It must still be coursing through my veins. The immortal doesn’t deal with humans often, I assume. Did she give me too much?
A wave of sleep washes over me like nausea. I grit my teeth against it.
Because I can hear them now. All three of them. All running after me.
“Raker!” I scream, beyond pride, beyond shame. The rain begins to pour heavier, as if colluding with those warriors. “Raker!”
The immortals behind me laugh. I get the feeling they aren’t even chasing me with their full speed. That they are, in fact, playing, dragging out the hunt, as if it’s a sport.
“Her fear … her desperation …” one says, his voice like velvet. “I smell it even through the rain. Look at her scream for help. Look at her realize no one is coming.” The others laugh.
A pit forms in my stomach, knowing these immortals can sense my every shade of terror. And it pleases them.
My boots kick up water and dirt. I risk a look back—and they’re right at my feet. Mouths pulled into grins.
At the edge of the village, I keep going, hoping they’ll give up. But as my feet hit the mud, I hear them right on my trail.
They’re immortal. Faster. Better in every way. The fact that they haven’t caught me already is also likely evidence of the number of drained goblets that were on their table.
“There’s nowhere to run, stupid human,” one of them trills.
He’s right. Up ahead is just a firm wall of gray. The mists. The Bone Woods. The fog is unmoving even under the downpour, sitting like an ominous cloud.
I run toward it, hoping its proximity will give them pause. And every inch closer I get, I feel it. An otherworldly coldness gripping my bones.
Sliding through my veins. Freezing my blood, little by little. Clawing at my soul.
One of the warriors behind me curses, slows down, but the others don’t.
And when I reach the mist, I turn sharply to run along its edge.
This close, I hear it like a whisper, like a beckoning. I feel its chill against my cheek, like a stroking skeletal finger. I feel its cut, like skirting a sword’s blade.
“You can’t outrun us,” one of the warriors says, his armor clamoring as he sprints. His voice is too close. Right behind me. Almost at my ear. I look
back and see him reaching for my sword. His hand is almost at the hilt.
His other hand is holding his weapon. It’s nearly at my neck. I veer to the other side—only to gasp. The other warrior is there, sword outstretched.
The one from before is now in front.
They have me surrounded. Boxed in.
I turn toward the village, but there’s no one coming to help. Raker didn’t hear my cries, or he did and he didn’t care. I’m alone.
“Look at that. Trapped like a rabbit in a snare. Nowhere to run,” one of the warriors says, before swinging his blade back. I know that position well.
I held it for hours. I know it’s setting up for a brutal, killing stroke. He wants to be the one to claim my sword.
But he’s wrong. There is somewhere to run.
Rain melts down my face as I turn—and throw myself through the wall of mist.