Page 149 of Heirs of the Cursed

Great.

There were too many soldiers, but so had been the Fiend’s dogs. The thought of using her magic crossed her mind for a brief second. She could summon her magic to save her own neck; but with the wound Killian had inflicted, it was as if the monster within had fallen into a deep sleep.

“Cover my back.”

That was all she said before stepping forward and attacking.

The metal of her sword collided with that of her enemy. She felt the force the soldier exerted toward her to bring her down, how her boots slid through the mud threatening to betray her.

With no intention of giving up, Naithea kicked his stomach, knocking him back. She twirled the sword between her fingers, a feral gleam in her eyes. She forgot about the enemies fighting against her to surrender her to a heartless king, and the world reduced to that forest tinged with darkness and the soldiers in front of her. The sounds around her, the screams and cries of pain disappeared into the thick air.

Naithea lunged straight at the soldier. She swung her sword twice; first to the right and then to the left. She aimed downward, toward his bare stomach, but the soldier deciphered her intentions and intercepted her attack before the tip could brush his armor. She stepped back, and reaffirmed her grip on her weapon before attacking again.

She’d fight until dawn if that was what it took to win . . .

A lump rose in her throat as she noticed another soldier approaching. They were two against one, and Naithea was the one at disadvantage.

The soldiers approached and charged at her with no remorse for the woman they had known. Kneeling, she shielded herself with her sword held high above her head, which shook with a tremble, warning her that the blade wouldn’t be able to hold for much longer.

Naithea began to back away, looking for shelter, an escape. The tip of a sword slided down her face and, soon after, blood spilled from her cheek. Her muscles clenched as the laughter of the soldier drowned out her senses. All she could do was watch them advance toward her, the air of victory exuding from their pores even before the combat had ended.

“You’re finished,” he declared.

Despite her own fears and wishes, Niathea didn’t let weakness show.

A snarl crept down her spine, slithering through her bones. The soldiers seemed to hear it as well, for they shifted their gazes from one to the other to the smoldering shadows around them.

“What is . . .?”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. A wild, orange and black figure leapt forward with his claws bared, catching the soldier’s arm and dragging him back into the shadows until his screams disappeared into the darkness.

Naithea’s heart pounded within her chest. Not with fear, but with hope. With the sweet promise of salvation. As if deep inside her, she knew that the beautiful creature wasn’t out there to attack her, but to help her.

Her gaze met that of the remaining soldier, her legs trembling as her hands gripped the sword nervously. Without her magic, Naithea fed on that fear. She used it to her advantage, swinging her sword toward only one of her enemies—a pawn in a much bigger game.

Before the soldier could defend himself, the tiger re-emerged from the shadows and dug his fangs into his throat with great force. With one swift movement, the creature snapped his neck in half.

Naithea admired the tiger, holding her breath. Their gazes met with a sense of familiarity. The shadows around them dissipated until it was nothing more than a passing mist.

Just then, the screams began.

Something was draining her, slowly sucking her magic and her life.

The illusions around her began to flicker, showing the reality of the night and the forest. Her heart raced so wildly that she had to lean forward, fighting the pressure in her chest to keep from vomiting. Metal was still clashing, thoughts were still echoing in her mind.

Everything was too loud.

Get up, she commanded herself.

She rested her hands on the wet soil and tried to get up, pushing with all her might to stand upright, but her power . . . Her power was weakening her, and something was turning it against her.

A hand closed around her throat and lifted her off the ground with ease. Darcia struggled for air as she set her gaze on the black-eyed soldier who now offered her a sibylline look. His expression bore hints of confusion at the sight of her, trying to figure out something she wasn’t aware of.

The grip on her neck loosened instantly.

“It’s you,” he said.

Darcia brought her hands to her own throat and scratched his skin to get him to let go of her. But the soldier was strong, much stronger than Alasdair or Conrad. Stronger than anyone she had ever met . . .

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