Page 51 of Lore of the Wilds

She dropped as a dagger flew over her head. Not even a moment later, she heard a sharp whistle above her and cursed as another dagger flew above her, thrown by Asher.

A sickening squelch and a cry of pain let her know he hadn’t missed.

On instinct, Lore took the tome and shoved it into her pack before pushing it behind her.

A deep voice shouted toward them from the tree line. “I’m going to kill ye for that one.”

Lore looked at Asher. He stood by the fire, feet set apart and twin swords now in his hands. His stony face showed no emotion.

Though her blood pounded in her ears, Lore couldn’t help but think how right the swords looked in Asher’s hands, as if they were extensions of his body rather than mere tools.

He stalked forward and hopped over the fallen log Lore had been sitting on, one sword raised and the other behind him, readied if he should need it.

A stranger appeared from the shadowed tree line, running toward Asher with his own sword raised. Asher, twin antlers gleaming in the moonlight and jaw set in determination, blocked the intruder’s swing with a practiced arc of his own. Their blades met with such force that the stranger cursed and staggered backward. His broadsword, one that required two hands, quivered. When Asher struck again, his movements lightning quick, the stranger retreated another step.

“Asher—behind you!” Lore yelled out, jumping to her feet as another male stepped out of the shadows, aiming his sword at Asher’s back.

She gritted her teeth, calling out to that moonlit power and hoping it would flow through her and out toward Asher, protectinghim. But nothing happened. Where she hoped to feel that power fill her up and explode from within her, she felt nothing, as if she were trying to fish water from a dried-up well.

Thankfully, Asher reacted to her warning and sidestepped the arc of the third male’s sword, so gracefully it looked more like a dance. While turning, Asher slashed behind him with his second sword, slicing the third interloper across the thigh.

The male roared as he dropped to one knee, hands pushed to the ribbon cut to try to stop the bubbling blood that gushed through his fingers.

Asher didn’t pause. He leaped closer and slammed his hilt into the temple of the kneeling fae, turning back to the second before the third one fell face first into the earth.

The second had recovered and raised his sword again, teeth bared in the moonlight and eyes red with fury. Asher, baring his teeth in return, swung both swords this time, keeping one high to block the sword and shoving the other through his opponent’s arm and right through his heart. The fae was dead before he could register what had happened.

Asher pulled his sword free, wiping it on the fallen fae’s vest. His breathing was ragged. He spared a quick glance at Lore but wouldn’t meet her gaze.

Lore looked around at the campsite, hands clenched tightly to her tunic as she swallowed back bile. Bodies seemed to be piling up before her. Before she’d set foot outside of Duskmere, if someone had asked her if the fae could even be mortally wounded she would have answered that they probably couldn’t. They’d seemed invincible. Impossible to wound, let alonekill.

But now she could see that she would have been very wrong.

She glanced back to Asher, who was kneeling on the ground, his fingers digging into the dirt as if looking for comfort in the soil. His mouth moved as if whispering a prayer.

Lore’s mind spun. Mere moments ago, she’d been sitting bythe fire, and now the campsite stank of blood and death. She tried to play the encounter back.

Three bandits had attacked—one went down immediately with Asher’s expert throw of the dagger and another now lay knocked out on the ground, with Asher standing over him and tying him up with rope.

How is he always prepared?

Asher grabbed a stick and used it with the rope to tie a tourniquet around the fae’s thigh. The third lay dead where he’d dropped, still clutching his sword.

So much death, and yet her power still hadn’t come back to her. The moon was high. She blinked back frustrated tears. She was tired of feeling so small and helpless.

On the other side of the clearing, the merchants were still asleep in their wagon, with no idea that they had almost been robbed—or worse. Were these bandits after their money, supplies, or the two younglings? She supposed they would find out when the one who remained alive woke and could be questioned.

Still, what had the girl said before? Fae younglings had gone missing of late.

Those two children could have been kidnapped and Lore would’ve been no help.

She kneeled, pulling the grimoire from her pack. This time, when she opened the book, she shivered at the familiar tingle that ran through her fingertips and up her arms. She slid her thumb over the rough pages of the parchment.

She sat back on her heels, angling the book so the moonlight fell on it. Sketches of weapons—two daggers side by side with an arrow between them—appeared on the page. The second dagger was on fire. Below the image was one of a sword that appeared to be made of ice. But what good would an ice sword be?

Suddenly the page changed before her eyes, the ink bleeding together and reforming into new pictures, faster than she couldregister. Words appeared and disappeared in languages she couldn’t read. A ringing filled her ears, and she could hear her blood rushing in time with her heartbeat.

Lore closed the book.

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