The mercenaries closed in, their boots crunching on the Blackwood's twisted roots. My hand fumbled for the dagger at my thigh, Lira's instincts screaming to draw it, but my own panic rooted me to the spot. Five against one, and I wasn't Lira—not really. I was a stranger in her body, with no idea how to wield her skills. The leader's scar-twisted grin widened as he raised his sword, the blade catching a sliver of light through the canopy.
"Last chance, girl," he growled. "Hand over the scroll, and maybe we let you crawl back to Valthorne."
The scroll. Not the Blade of Dusk—they thought I already had it? My mind raced, but there was no time to unravel their mistake. The crossbowman's finger tightened on the trigger, and I acted on instinct—Lira's, not mine. I yanked the reins, urging the mare to rear. She snorted, hooves slashing the air, and the crossbow bolt whizzed past my ear, embedding in a tree.
Chaos erupted. The mercenaries lunged, swords and axes gleaming. I swung the dagger free, its weight foreign but familiar to Lira's muscles. I slashed wildly, catching one man's arm. He cursed, stumbling back, but another was already on me, his axe swinging for my side. I ducked, the blade grazing my cloak, and kicked the mare into a gallop. The path was too narrow, though—roots snagged her hooves, and she stumbled, throwing me to the ground.
Pain exploded through my shoulder as I hit the dirt. The mercenaries were on me in seconds, theirまでは.The leader grabbed my arm, wrenching me up, his sword at my throat. "Stupid move," he snarled.
I braced for the end, my heart hammering. But then—a gust of wind, sharp and unnatural, swept through the Blackwood. The trees groaned, and a shadow moved faster than my eyes could follow. The leader's grip loosened as he gasped, blood spraying from a gash across his chest. He collapsed, and I stumbled back, staring.
Lord Valthorne stood there, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light, his sword dripping red. His eyes were cold, predatory, as he cut through the mercenaries like a storm. One fell, then another, their screams swallowed by the forest. The crossbowman fired, but Valthorne moved like liquid shadow, the bolt missing by inches. A flick of his wrist, and the man's throat was slit. The last mercenary ran, but a dagger—Valthorne's—found his back.
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. I scrambled to my feet, my dagger trembling in my hand. Valthorne turned to me, his expression unreadable but his eyes burning. "You're still alive," he said, his voice low, laced with mockery. "Barely."
My face burned, shame and fear twisting together. "I—I didn't ask for your help," I stammered, Lira's defiance mixing with my own desperation.
He stepped closer, his sword still in hand. "And yet, without it, you'd be dead." He sheathed the blade, his gaze raking over me. "Pathetic. I expected more from my apprentice."
The words stung, sharper than the axe that had nearly killed me. I wanted to argue, to tell him I wasn't Lira, that I didn't belong here, but his stare silenced me. He was right—I'd been overwhelmed, useless. If he hadn't been the shadowy figure watching me, I'd be a corpse.
"Get up," he ordered, turning to my horse, who stood nearby, unharmed. "We're not done."
I climbed to my feet, wincing at the pain in my shoulder. "The Blade of Dusk," I said, my voice hoarse. "They thought I had it."
Valthorne's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, mounting his own horse—a massive black stallion that had appeared from nowhere. "Move. The Chapel awaits."
I nodded, swallowing my questions. He'd saved me, but his mockery cut deeper than the mercenaries' blades. As I remounted, I couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been testing me—and I'd failed.