Page 76 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
Behind us, the king’s men regroup. I hear them shouting, their voices desperate, the crash of boots growing louder.
We don’t have time to even breathe.
But as we run, I see Sable’s face—sweaty, blood-streaked, beautifully alive—and know that nothing will ever be the same.
We don’t get far.
The ground in front of us explodes with motion—four, six, a dozen men in black and red livery, all of them hungry for blood. The captain is tall and lean, his helmet a crow’s beak, the plumage dyed to match my own hair.
He spots me instantly and grins, his white teeth sharp in the dark.
“By order of King Gallagher Morgantern, seize the princess!” he bellows, his voice slick with triumph. “Alive if possible, dead if you must!”
Alive if possible.
My blood runs colder than the grave.
The brothers don’t hesitate. They slam to a halt, circling me and Sable. Bran and Grim at my left, Onyx and Talon to theright, Shade at the point. Rune hovers behind, his hand steady at the small of my back.
Sable sags at my side, barely conscious, but his eyes flicker, wild and alive. I pull him up, bracing his dead weight against my hip. I’m trembling so hard my teeth click, but the magic still sings under my skin, not tired, just raw and reckless.
“Get ready,” Shade says, his voice low. “We make a hole and run for it.”
But there are too many.
The men fan out, swords and pikes gleaming, boots crushing saplings and wildflowers as they close in. They expect fear. They expect surrender. They have no idea.
The captain steps forward, swinging his saber in a lazy figure eight. “You’re surrounded, girl,” he calls. “Give yourself up and we’ll be gentle.”
He means it. He means it the way men always mean it.
I spit blood and bile at his boots. “Come take me, asshole.”
The men laugh. The first one steps in, swinging a pike at Onyx.
He never gets the chance to swing again.
Onyx grabs the shaft, snaps it like a matchstick, then shoves the broken point through the man’s chest. The impact is so violent that it lifts him off his feet. Onyx roars and tosses his body aside, barreling into the next two guards with enough force to bend their helmets. He rams their heads together, and one of them drops instantly, blood spurting from his nose like a geyser.
Rune is beside me, his eyes silver and burning, muttering words I can’t quite catch. The earth under the guards’ feet ripples, then bursts. Black roots, sharp and wet, rocket up from the ground, twining around their legs and yanking them down. The roots move fast, too fast. Within seconds, five men are screaming and clawing, their bodies sucked halfway into the earth.
Grim and Bran move as one. They drop low, scuttling along the edge of the circle, their bodies shifting as they go. Feathers sprout along Grim’s arms, his hands twisting into talons. Bran’s face is slick with black, his teeth longer, sharper. They hit the first group of soldiers with a frenzy I can’t follow—arms, claws, beaks, all flashing in the moonlight. Grim rakes a man’s face off in a single swipe; Bran bites another’s throat, hot blood spray painting his jaw.
Shade keeps his eyes on the captain, moving with a predatory stillness that’s more animal than human. He sidesteps the first sword thrust, grabs the captain’s wrist, and snaps it with a single twist. The captain howls, falling back, but Shade follows, slamming a knee into his gut, then flipping him onto his back. The saber clatters away, and Shade pins the captain’s throat with one boot.
Talon is a force of nature. He wades into the fight with both arms raised, swinging broken tree limbs like clubs. He catches a guard across the jaw, and the man’s skull caves in with a wet crunch. Two more try to tackle him, but Talon just shakes them off, breaking bones with every motion. There’s blood everywhere—on his face, in his hair, dripping from his teeth. He doesn’t care. He’s smiling.
All this happens in the space of a few heartbeats.
But more men are coming—twenty, thirty, too many to count. They crash through the trees in waves, shoving aside their own wounded, blind to anything but the promise of reward.
Sable coughs beside me, his eyes wild. “Let me fight,” he rasps, but his limbs won’t work.
He can’t fight. But I can. I feel the magic whispering for blood, screaming to be fed.
I set Sable down behind a mossy stump, then turn, my arms raised. The magic is a living thing now, crawling over my skin, dancing in my veins.
A guard lunges at me, his sword high. I let the magic loose. It lashes out, blue and black, catching the man mid-stride and yanking him to his knees. His armor corrodes in seconds, peeling away to reveal the pale, shaking flesh underneath.
