Page 21 of Of Flames and Fallacies

“—and left the bloody redhead on a spike near the border to scare off the rest of the rebels.”

The first man shakes his head. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You callin’ me a liar? Go look at it yourself. Up north about thirty miles from here.”

“I’m not daring north of Blackfell.”

“Well, then, maybe you can go ask him yourself. Their squad is over there.” The second man jabs a finger over his shoulder.

My heart tumbles and races as I follow his direction toward the back left of the building. I push up onto my toes, trying to peer over the shifting bodies of the crowd.

Red hair gleams against the grey-washed stone walls. Cole’s hair sweeps down toward a soft beard brushing his jawline. He’s different from the man I remember. He’s no longer the clean-shaven man with a shorter haircut who left home.

His jaw is set in a hard line, and his forehead creases in concentration as he stares down at paper strewn on the table. Someone from his group points at a spot on the page. He nods thoughtfully and tips back his mug to swallow its contents. Standing and gathering the pages, he sets down the mug before turning to talk to the men around him. A waitress struts over to him and motions toward his mug. Cole shakes his head with his signature glowing smile. It softens the rest of his rugged, dangerous features. Popping her hip, the waitress tilts her head back and bats her lashes.

I’m not the only one who thinks he’s gorgeous.

Cole hands the woman a small pouch before he and his group slip out of a back door and disappear. When the door shuts, I snake my way through the crowd.

A loud clash of swords splits the air, and the crowd erupts into a frenzy. The jostle falters my step, and Daeja’s claws sink into me for grip. I grit my teeth to avoid shouting. By the time I reach where Cole sat, it’s been a few minutes.

I burst out of the back door, the cold air whipping me in the face. Each direction the road splits into is void of any hint of Cole.

He’s gone.

Rain blurs my vision as I break into a sprint down the main road. Daeja bounces with each fall of my step. My hopes sink at every empty alley and vacant road.

Each passerby I ask if they’ve seen a military group walk through. The fourth person I ask mentions a military outpost northwest of Blackfell near a lake. By the time I leave Blackfell and reenter the forest, the rain ceases, and the cloud cover lightens. The sounds of the forest are broken by the unmistakable clashing of metal against metal.

My hand wraps tighter around the sword at my side. I slow my pace and stick to the cover of shrubs and trees, slinking closer to the sound until the trees break into a clearing. I crouch behind a shrub and peer over the ragged top. Sparse bits of green grass sprinkle the ground, surrounded by trampled earth and...drag marks?

My observation is interrupted by two men fighting with swords, one of whom is far outmatched by the other. Taller than me by an inch or two, his sandy blonde hair whips through the air each time he dodges his opponent’s sword.

His towering, brown-haired opponent ruthlessly hacks cut after cut, handling his sword with such ease his long chestnut hair dances around his face.

Men and women circle them, shouting encouragements.

The dark-haired male advances, flicks his wrist, and effortlessly disarms his opponent.

The onlookers fall silent as the sword flies several feet away.

Looming toward the unarmed, golden-haired man, the victor swings his sword once more. His opponent falls onto his back, narrowly dodging a slice to his chest, and the crowd breaks out into shouts of disgust.

A voice cuts above the rest and everyone falls silent. “Darian, that’s enough.”

The golden-haired one shuffles backward and fumbles for his sword on the ground, grabbing it just in time to block the next swing.

The brown-haired male, Darian, snorts. “The rules in war are that the weakest links die.

This mop will either be killed or get us killed. No use in giving the kid any hope.” He takes another step forward, his sword raised in preparation to swing again.

The other male rolls out of the way.

From the sidelines, a man in a white shirt and dark pants jumps to his feet, his red hair vibrant against the light of the moon. Cole.

“Darian, you ruthless fuck. That’s an order.” Cole plucks a fistful of Darian’s shirt, ripping him back before he can strike again.

Darian spins, but Cole twists the sword out of his grasp and glares at him. Darian swings his fist, the punch connecting with Cole’s cheek and spinning his face in my direction.

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