Chapter 16
Slade
The first blast split the air like thunder cracking open the sky.
Heat tore through the market. Screams followed a heartbeat later—raw, panicked, too many. I ducked low, dragging a sheet of metal from the side of a nearby vendor’s cart and twisting it instinctively into a curved shield as debris rained down.
“Elira!” I barked, but I couldn’t see her. Not through the smoke. Not through the flames.
Vael’s soldiers in blue poured in from the eastern end, moving in like they'd been waiting for the chaos. Organized. Coordinated. This wasn’t random. It was a goddamn ambush.
Phoenix and Thorne were already drawing steel, Leo nowhere in sight. I didn’t have time to wait—I charged straight into the wave of bodies.
A sword clanged against my shield, sparking as I twisted it into a spike and shoved it through the soldier’s chest. Another came at me from the right—I ducked his blade, gripped the iron studs in the street with a flick of thought, and pulled them up like claws beneath his feet. He went down screaming.
Two more.
I shifted the metal along my wrist into thin wire, whipping it forward, slicing across their thighs before either could swing. They crumpled.
And still more came.
My body moved on instinct. Duck, parry, slash. Rip the nails from the crates beside me and send them flying. Reform the shards into a spear. Fight. Kill. Move. I was faster than them, stronger. I fought with everything I had, but I kept scanning the smoke—
Where was she?
“Elira!” I shouted.
And that second of distraction—that was the mistake.
A blade slipped under my guard. I felt it bite deep into my side. Not a scratch. Not a graze. Deep. Hot blood soaked through my shirt instantly.
I roared and twisted, grabbed the metal of the enemy’s sword and yanked it from his hand with a furious snarl. Shoved it through his chest.
My side burned. The wound was bad. Slowed me down. Couldn’t afford that. Not now.
I tore off a strip of my shirt with my teeth and wrapped it tight around the bleeding, just enough to buy me time.
I had to find her.
The fight surged around me. Civilians were screaming, running, getting cut down. I saw a girl dragged by her hair. A boy trampled. A merchant struck in the back as he fled.
I couldn’t stop them all.
But I could still find her.
I pushed past two more bluecoats, slamming them aside with raw metal force, the ground warping around my boots as I drew from every scrap of iron I could feel nearby. My vision tunnelled. The scent of smoke and blood mixed in my nose.
“Elira!” I shouted again, desperate now.
There was no answer.
And then—through the haze—I saw the docks.
And I felt it. That wrongness in the air.
I took off toward it, pain screaming in my arm. But I didn’t stop.
I would not lose her.
A soldier lunged for me from the smoke, blade raised. I twisted to block, but the pain in my side flared, too sharp, too sudden. I was off balance. Too slow.
And then—
A blur.
Silver flashed past me. The soldier let out a grunt, stumbling back, blood blooming on his chest like spilled ink.
Elira.
She moved with the precision of someone who’d fought before.
Every movement was sharp, calculated, as if the battle was an extension of her body, a rhythm she knew by heart.
Her hair whipped behind her like a dark banner, the fiery intensity in her eyes matching the storm building in the air.
She wasn’t just defending herself—she was attacking, every strike a declaration.
For a brief moment, she paused. A flicker of something passed over her face—surprise, confusion, maybe even disbelief—as she glanced at her arm.
Her hand, now gripping the blade, seemed foreign, like it didn’t quite belong to her, like the weight of the weapon was something she had forgotten.
But before the moment could stretch any longer, she blinked, shaking off the hesitation as if it was never there to begin with.
In the next heartbeat, she was moving again, fast—faster than any of them could follow.
She ducked low, a smooth and graceful motion that brought her under the swing of her opponent's blade.
Without missing a beat, she surged upward, driving her stolen dagger into the man's thigh with brutal force. The sound of the metal cutting through flesh was sickening, but she didn’t flinch.
She yanked the blade out in one swift motion, a spray of blood splattering her arm.
Her focus never wavered. The moment the man crumpled, she was already turning to face the next threat, her body fluid in the violence, every move an instinct.
“Slade!” she shouted, voice tight with effort. “Behind you!”
I turned just in time to see another soldier charging—too close, too fast.
Elira was already moving. She threw herself between us, blocking the strike with her forearm, hissing in pain as the sword skidded off the edge of her blade. With a grunt, she shoved upward, disarming him, then slammed the hilt of her dagger into his temple. He dropped.
Steel sang beside me.
Elira’s blade flashed past, catching the soldier who’d broken through my guard. He dropped with a grunt, and she didn’t pause—spinning, blocking another with her shoulder, then ramming her dagger under his ribs. We stood back-to-back, breath ragged in the smoke.
She fought like she’d done this before. Not polished, not trained—but fierce. Wild. Controlled chaos. She moved on instinct, but her instincts were good. Sharp. Protective. For a moment, I forgot the pain in my side.
Another enemy surged from the smoke—blue-cloaked, sword raised. I threw up a hand and the metal buckled from his grip, ripping free and twisting into shards that speared him backward. Elira didn’t flinch.
She used the opening to close the gap, dropping two more with precise, brutal strikes. We moved together like gears in a clock. Effortless. Natural. Her back against mine. My shield to her blade. A pair. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something like pride stir in my chest.
I stayed at her side until the smoke began to thin and the last of the soldiers lay unmoving in the dirt.
We were surrounded by silence. By bodies.
My boots felt heavy. The blood loss had gone from burning to cold.
My vision pulsed at the edges. “Elira,” I muttered.
She turned just in time to catch me as my knees buckled.
“Slade!” Her hands were under my arms, her strength surprising as she hauled me upright. “No, no, no—you’re not doing this now.”
Elira’s anger flared like a burst of flame at my sudden weakness, but it didn’t stop her. Her grip tightened, and her eyes darkened with a fierce determination as she hauled me forward, not even pausing to acknowledge the strain in her own body.
I was heavier than her, broad-shouldered and solid—an obstacle that would have slowed anyone else, but not her.
Her shadows surged to life, like an extension of herself, coiling beneath my feet and around my waist, as though they were part of her will.
They supported my weight with unnatural ease, lifting me slightly off the ground as she moved, their dark tendrils wrapping around me like invisible hands.
The shadows bent and shifted, compensating for her own limitations, allowing her to drag me without faltering. I tried to shake it off, tried to force my feet to move. But blood was slick against my skin, and my vision was narrowing, edges fuzzy.
“I said, no,” Elira growled through clenched teeth, her voice shaking, but not from fear—no, it was something else. It was frustration. And exhaustion.
She was pushing her small body to the brink.
I could hear the pounding of her heart in the silence of the aftermath. She wasn’t just angry at the enemies we’d faced, at the bloodshed, or the chaos. She was angry at me for getting hurt and pissed that she failed to prevent it.
My little wildcat.
I felt the pull in her, her will pushing against me like an ocean against a stone.
“I can walk,” I slurred out.
“Stop being an idiot,” she snapped as she dragged me further into the shadow of a nearby hut. Her sharp breaths echoed in the cramped space.
The moment she eased me against the wall, she turned on her heel and grabbed a shard of cloth, pressing it against the wound in my side.
“I’m fine,” I muttered, but the words were a lie.
She cut me off with a low, guttural growl. “I’m not interested in your fine,” she spat.
She ripped off a section of her shirt revealing her flat pale stomach and wrapped it around me tightly.
The cloth around my side was tight, the pressure both comforting and painful as Elira worked quickly.
She didn’t look at me—her eyes were focused on the task at hand, determined and precise, but I could feel the tension in her shoulders.
She was still angry, and I knew it wasn’t just about the fight.
The blood was slowing, but not fast enough. My breath came in shallow bursts, and I could tell I was pushing myself too far.
“Stay with me, grumpy bear,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper, but the urgency in it cut through the fog creeping over my mind. Her fingers grazed the edges of the wound, and I flinched, but she didn’t say anything. She just kept working, even when I could see the tremor in her hands.
My gaze drifted, not fully focused, as I fought to keep my eyes open.
The world felt too distant, too quiet. I wanted to speak, to say something that would reassure her, but the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, I let the silence settle, the only sound between us the raggedness of our breaths and the distant hum of the market chaos.
It wasn’t long before I heard the heavy footsteps approaching. I tried to call out, tried to warn her, but the words were thick in my throat.
“Elira!” The voice was familiar—Thorne, of course. But it wasn’t until I heard the clink of weapons, the steady rhythm of their movements, that I knew they were getting closer.