Page 88 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
I lock eyes with Edmond and smile, trying to prove that I’m not afraid. I am, though. More afraid than I’ve ever been.
The first sword comes at Shade all at once.
He sidesteps, grabs the guard’s arm, and shatters it at the elbow with a single twist. The man screams, dropping his blade.
Shade finishes him with a headbutt that cracks visor and skull alike. Before the man’s body even hits the ground, Shade is already on to the next, moving like a viper.
To my right, Grim is my favorite kind of nightmare. He doesn’t waste motion, doesn’t show mercy. He’s a wild black wind, snarling and monstrous. He slides past a spear, rips it from the guard’s grip, and stabs the man through the throat with his own weapon.
The next guard charges.
Grim catches him by the wrist, turns the sword against its owner, and carves a smile across the man’s belly. Blood splatters the ice, hot and steaming, before Grim is moving again, carving a row of death and destruction right through the middle of my father’s guards.
Onyx is a force of nature. He catches a sword swing on his forearm, barely flinching as it scores a shallow line. With his free hand, he grabs the guard by the breastplate and lifts him clear off the ground. The man kicks and yells, but Onyx just hurls him like a sack of grain into a knot of three more.
They fall in a tangle, and Onyx wades in after, his boots crunching bone and armor as if it’s nothing.
I don’t wait for the guards to come to me. My magic is a living thing, hungry and impatient to destroy. I raise my hands and let it flow, blue-black wisps arcing from my fingertips. It strikes the nearest shield wall, blowing three men backward. Their armor smokes, the metal burned too hot to touch.
I don’t even know what I’m doing, but I do it anyway, guided by instinct, desperation, rage, and sheer determination to ensure the seven men at my side survive.
One of the guards is just a boy, Simon. He’s only a year older than me, still soft around the eyes, still wearing the hand-me-downs of his father’s post. His sword trembles in his grip.
“Don’t,” I warn him, my voice soft. “Don’t make me kill you.”
He charges anyway.
I flick my wrist.
His sword flies from his hand, clattering across the ice. He stumbles, slips, and lands hard. I want to help him. The magic wants to kill him. But there’s no time for either.
Another guard is already swinging at my head.
I duck, then blast him in the stomach with raw power. He folds, vomiting blood, and drops.
Bran is beside me, his glasses fogged and bloody, a wild grin on his face. He’s usually gentle, but not now. He fights with savage joy, swinging a stolen mace with both hands. He cracks a helmet, then an arm, then a knee, every strike precise and efficient.
When a guard tries to flank us, Bran just pivots and plants the mace in his groin. The man goes down, wheezing.
Rune is everywhere and nowhere. He darts behind Shade, then to my left, then vanishes into the swirl of capes and bodies. He whispers something, and the air grows thick. Three guards freeze, their limbs locked in place, eyes wide with terror.
Rune walks up, plucks a dagger from his belt, and slits each one’s throat, quick and neat.
Sable is poetry in motion. He never stands still, never lets a guard get a bead on him. He darts between legs, under arms, leaping and twisting, always smiling, always taunting. He kills as easily as he laughs. More often, he disarms and disables, leaving a trail of men clutching broken fingers and shattered pride.
Talon is pure violence. His knives are extensions of his will, killing with dizzying speed. He grabs a guard by the face, digs his thumbs into the man’s eyes, and uses the leverage to snaphis neck. He drops him and then spins and buries a knife in another’s thigh. The guard howls, but Talon’s already moved on.
I taste blood, but I don’t know if it’s mine or theirs.
Someone grabs my hair, yanking me back. I twist, trying to break free, but their grip is iron. The man hauls me off my feet, dragging me toward Edmond.
My magic sparks, but it’s hard to focus with my scalp on fire.
Edmond smiles as I’m pulled in front of him. “You’ve made quite a mess, Princess. Your father will be disappointed.”
I spit in his face. The glob of blood and saliva lands on his cheek, trailing down the perfect polish of his plate. He doesn’t flinch.
Shade sees what’s happening. He roars—an inhuman, animal sound—and barrels through the guards between us. He rips a sword from the nearest hand and drives it through a man’s chest, then kicks his body away. Blood sprays in an arc, painting the frost.
