Page 40 of A Fate so Cruel

Two Fae warriors screamed over the downpour, instructing five others who promptly raced across the muddy field in the wrong direction.

He smirked.

They knew he was here. Knew The Demon was in their midst and they weren’t taking any chances. He had watched them round up their warriors. Had seen the traps on the ground and redirected their attention on purpose.

It would have been easier to just kill them all. The act of killing didn’t bother him anymore, but there were at least a hundred Fae in this camp, and he didn’t feel like taking them all on at once. Instead, Rion had dispersed his magic across multiple entry points, forcing the warriors to chase after him.

The rain had been a blessing, even if it made his clothes cling annoyingly to his body.

Another group of ten sprinted past with their weapons drawn. He loosed a breath, studied the darkness, then darted from his hiding place. Rion moved across the earth like a wraith. He wasn’t a child anymore, nor a teen. He’d honed his skills to near perfection.

Rion paused beside the window to a small warehouse and peered inside. Empty. Good. They were scrambling.

He couldn’t rely on his sense of smell tonight. A disadvantage due to the water pouring down in droves. But in his current situation, he’d take the advantages over the disadvantages.

He carefully cracked the door and slipped inside.

Crates were piled to the ceiling and lined every wall. Rion found a bar leaning against the nearest one and used it to pry the box open. He saw the straw first and carefully moved it aside before grimacing at the contents.

A dozen glass vials full of a greenish liquid sat in two neat rows, each evenly spaced.

Poison. Just as Saoirse expected. It was an ongoing issue they’d been fighting for a few years. A rebel faction was responsible for using the deadly substance on more than one village that had refused to conform to their delusional ideology.

Rion carefully placed the vials on the floor then scattered the straw. He’d suffered the effects of poisoning before. He would have killed the one responsible had Saoirse not gotten to them first. But this—this was said to drop a Fae in less than five minutes. He’d seen the agonizing effects. Body convulsions. Profusive vomiting. Uncontrolled fever.

Thankfully, someone with a brilliant mind had crafted an antidote and Nàdair’s warriors were now required to carry it on their person at all times. He was no exception, at least where Saoirse was concerned.

Rion opened another lid, carefully set the vials aside, then spread more straw across the floor.

At least it was flammable.

He pulled a match from his pack, threw it into the scattered straw, then sprinted through the open door.

A group of ten warriors waited for him on the other side.

They paused. Their mouths fell open, but Rion didn’t have time to pause. He charged and they stumbled back. Rion shoved the nearest two out of his path, then the building exploded.

Muddy earth rose up behind him to block the shrapnel that flew in all directions. His ears rang, but Rion pivoted in time to see a male racing toward him with six following in his wake.

Rion drew his sword—one hundred on one. Not the best of odds, but there was only one way to see who’d emerge victorious.

Rion raised one arm and a wall of squelching mud rose with him. Those nearest to it tried to dive out of its path, but Rion shoved the dripping magic straight for them. The force of the impact knocked the breath from their lungs. They hit the ground and the mud washed over their bodies, dragging them under.

When facing warriors from Brónach, Rion always ensured he maintained control of everything beneath his feet. He’d learned far too many hard lessons. Seedlings wriggled in the mud, reminding Rion of an angry swarm of insects, but he squashed each, refusing to be caught off guard. There were too many warriors in this camp to allow any mistakes.

The male to Rion’s left lunged, blade drawn, a dozen vines in his wake. Rion smirked at him. Another followed, but his fear already coated the vicinity. Rion crinkled his nose. Someone had wet themselves.

He usually let those who fled escape, but these Fae were part of an organization hell-bent on bringing down their family line. And he couldn’t allow that. For Saoirse and for his pride.

A tree trunk erupted from the ground and spurred toward him. Rion jumped away from it, losing his grip on the ground around his feet. A bush burst from the mud, but Rion used his magic to propel himself into the air, avoiding the snake-like strike from the thorny branches.

More trees emerged and Rion raced along the branches, ducking and dodging everything that came at him. It was often a game. To see how long they could last while he outran theirmaneuvers. He was always faster. Always stronger. He’d almost grown bored over the last few years, but when he encountered large groups like this one­—

Freedom. That’s what fighting was. A chance for him to use his skills and implement the new ones he’d picked up along the way.

A trunk bent at a ninety-degree angle and slammed into Rion’s side. Breath left him and Rion grimaced before using his magic to grab his own arm and yank himself away from the magic trying to close in.

Rion rolled across the ground, blocked a knife aimed for his throat, then spun in a circle. The surrounding ground lifted all at once. It morphed into hundreds of pieces of rock the size of his palm, then shot out at a high velocity in all directions.

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