Page 66 of Of Flames and Fallacies

I swing sideways into one man’s sword. As soon as our blades collide, the strength of his blow rips my sword out of my grasp, sending it flying back a few feet. An unsettling vibration rings throughout my hand, all the way up my arm. The second one swings for my head, and I duck, the metal grazing the very tips of my hair. His sword catches into the cabinet beside me, the wood groaning at the impact. The man heaves to pull it free.

My gaze darts to my sword on the ground, a few feet away and blocked by the first man who swipes his blade toward me again. Falling backward, I roll onto my side but not fast enough to dodge the tip of his blade. A wicked sting rips across my arm.

Fuck.There goes my twenty-two seconds.

Daeja’s roar echoes in my head, nearly incapacitating me from my next move.

“Daeja—”

A vicious slam of splintering wood tears all of our attention to the door. A man, as dark and cruel as a nightmare, surges into the room.

Darian.

He flies in with a boiling rage, decapitating the commanding man in one fell swoop. The man’s head thuds to the ground and rolls, his body collapsing a split second after. The other two freeze, before scattering like roaches in the room.

Darian hunts them down, swinging and striking like the graceful lethality of a snake. Cold, calculating, and painfully beautiful. Despite the violent moment, I’m mesmerized by how simple he makes it all seem. Crawling to my sword, I swipe it off the ground and jump to my feet. All three of the intruders are onthe floor, soaked in pools of their own blood. Darian rakes his gaze across the room.

Our eyes connect.

A brutality smolders in his eyes, like an unbridled wildfire that could set the entire world ablaze. His chest heaves, lips pulled back in a silent snarl, and sweat drips down his face. “Where is Marge?”

Marge limps past me and pats my shoulder, her touch stirring the memory I was struck. I clamp down on my upper arm to slow the river of blood trickling down to my hand.

The tension in Darian’s face lessens slightly. “Glad you live to see another day, Margie.”

He snakes over to a cabinet as he reaches for the flask tucked into his side. Grabbing a bottle from the shelf, he pours its contents into the flask and takes a few hard gulps from the bottle himself.

“Darian,” Marge hisses. “What have I told you about proper etiquette?”

“Considering I just saved your ass, Marge, don’t give meshitabout manners.” He wipes the liquid from his mouth with the back of his hand, a satisfied breath escaping his lips. He puts the bottle back onto the shelf and lifts his flask to us before he leaves.

The sound of the alarm bell in the distance dies out before the door shuts again.

“Wretched boy. Couldn’t even be bothered to clean up after himself.” Marge sneers as she walks over to the bloodied bodies sprawled across the floor. As if he had left broken glass on the ground, rather than three mutilated men.

She turns her attention back to me. “Come here. Let me get a look at your arm.”

I don’t allow my gaze to linger for too long on the bodies, my stomach roiling with every glimpse. I fix my stare at the ceiling as her nimble hands assess me.

Marge watches my face, potentially noticing my unease. “Nothing but a superficial cut. I can clean you up in a bit…why don’t you find Cole first, and see if he can send someone to help clear this out?” She motions toward the bloodied ground.

I don’t argue.

Holding my breath and fixing my gaze on anywhere but down, I inch around the pools of blood and out of the healer’s quadrant.

A cold silence replaces the screams and chaos bursting in the outpost earlier. I’m assuming we’ve won, but an eerie tension settles around the camp like an invisible fog. Every direction I scan is empty, no hint of our squad or our attackers.

“I’m okay, Daeja. I’m safe.”

“You had me worried something bad was going to happen—”

A hand claps over my mouth, tearing me backward. My shoulders hit a firm chest, and a cold, metal sword presses to my throat. “Don’t scream. Don’t fight. Or I’ll kill you.” The words are whispered into my neck, the voice rough and unfamiliar.

My instinct to scream and thrash dies.

“Drop your sword,” the man hisses.

My hand flexes on the hilt of my sword, the metal slippery in my hands. I won’t be able to maneuver fast enough to avoid my throat being sliced open if I try to run. And my inexperience with sword fighting would also mean a quick death.

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