Page 40 of Revenge of the Forgotten

Marlena huffed, throwing her arms up. “And I did!”

Arlet made herself small, sinking into the background as the Caelums argued.

“That’s where you’re wrong, daughter.” Ryanna’s voice was void of any warmth. “Your work as a leader of this realm is never done. Do you think your father and I have time to go meandering around the city during every festival? No. It’s not becoming of a future seat holder to be seen partying through the night with her friends.”

“Mom, we were just going for a few?—”

“Vega, please. Stay out of this. You and Arlet go have a good time and say hello to Khort for us, would you?” Her mother reached out and brushed Vega’s cheek, adjusting Arlet’s crown of daisies in passing. “Marlena, go upstairs and change.” She walked by without so much as a glance in her eldest daughter's direction.

“Mother, please, can I go for just an hour? All I want?—”

Jonan’s deep voice boomed. “If you ask one more time, you’re going to regret it! Now do as your mother said and go change.”

Vega flinched at her father’s tone, eyes bouncing between Marlena and her parents. “Mar, I…” Her sister’s gaze darted to her, a desperate plea hiding behind her eyes. “I’ll bring you back your favorite berry tarte.”

Arlet grabbed Vega’s hand gently and pulled her through the doorway. Vega peered over her shoulder, watching Marlena’s stare darken until the door to their home slammed shut.

15

It’s you. It’s you. It’s you.

Vega’s words distracted him, slowing his defensive moves as he tried to wrangle the dagger from Arlet’s grasp. What did Vega mean by that?

“Someone’s been practicing,” he cooed sarcastically.

Meyer knew the plan: get Vega back to Tolevarre. Bridger would handle holding Arlet off until then. Or at least he thought he would, but Arlet was stronger and faster than he remembered.

Her dagger soared through the air and stuck its intended target.

Bridger’s leg.

“And you’ve slowed down.”

His hand shot down to the handle sticking out of the thick muscle of his thigh. Bridger hissed in pain, taking his eye off his opponent for a second too long—rookie fucking move. Arlet’s heel met the hilt, tearing into Bridger’s thigh before the handle snapped off.

Bridger came down onto his knee and bit his lip to keep from crying out.

Arlet vanished into the dark forest, leaving Bridger to deal with his leg. He inhaled through clenched teeth, and stuck his fingers inside the gaping wound to dig the blade out. Blood coated his hands, dripping down his leg. He looked up at the canopy of massive trees above him, his vision blurred from the pain.

The sound of Arlet’s footsteps was covered by the wind dancing through the branches high above and the pounding of his pulse echoing in his ears. “Fuck,” he exclaimed, throwing the ruined blade to the ground.

Bridger stumbled forward and fought through the fire in his leg. Being a warrior wasn’t just about the fighting—it was about being well-rounded. And sometimes, being well-rounded meant needing to hunt. Tracking came second nature to Bridger. They wouldn’t be too far ahead, but his new wound slowed him down.

He followed the direction of boot prints in a wet patch of mud until the sound of a scuffle east of him caught his attention. The voice of his general echoed through the trees. “When are you going to give up, huh? Vega won’t survive this curse.”

Bridger kicked himself into a higher gear, jogging through the pain to find Meyer and Arlet circling each other. Vega’s limp body was on the ground behind them.

“I’m going to kill you with a smile on my face one day.” Arlet wasn’t letting them get away without a fight, that much was clear. She was a woman on a mission and fought like her world depended on it.

“You don’t have it in you, Arlet Videri.” Meyer’s words made Arlet let out a gut-wrenching scream that sounded a lot like a battle cry.

Before he had the opportunity to reset and strike again, Arlet spun with the grace of a practiced fighter—an ease Bridger spent years training his soldiers to have. Her leg raised above her head in a roundhouse and kicked Meyer across the temple. His head snapped to the side, spit splattering the air, and his bright eyes rolled back into his head.

Meyer collided with the brush underneath his feet.

Arlet’s attention turned to him, eyes wide with panic. “Enough, Bridger!” she shouted. “Please!”

Bridger drew his sword and spun it around his wrist as a habit. He laughed, a throaty, hoarse sound. “Please?” His eyes shot to Meyer and then back to Arlet. “Do you think if you ask nicely, I’ll forgive you for stabbing me?”

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