It had all been going so well, only moments ago.
Tahl and Bryar were on a patrol, far enough from the perimeter of the camp that they couldn’t smell the smoke from the cookfires, or hear the clack of weapons drilling. Far enough that the sights and smells and sounds of the woods could reassert themselves, comforting and quiet: pine and loam, shivering wind, the bright cry of distant birds. The two of them bickered amiably as they walked. Bryar was ribbing him about something – Tahl was paying only half attention, with the other half busy convincing himself he did not care that Elina had found the camp and gotten immediately busy doing exactly what he’d been worried she’d do. It was not a betrayal, but it still made his skill crawl. Made him think less of Tristan, even if he knew exactly how tempting that she-demon could be.
Whatever, he thought, scowling. They deserve each other.
He did not say any of this out loud, though his face was going on a journey that his camp-sister could probably read. Tristan was Bryar’s friend, as perplexing as that was to Tahl. And in the Prince’s defense, he had finally awakened from that interminable idleness that had made Tahl seriously question what the hell he was doing there. They were becoming a proper rebellion, now, all trained up under that stern Alliance guy’s command, causing Mordred all kinds of trouble. What did it matter, who Tristan decided to take to his bed? He could make Elina queen for all he cared. And Tahl would just…be very careful not to let his expression show that he knew what she looked like, naked.
And avoid the castle altogether! That would be easy!
“What?” he answered her, snapping out of his scowling reverie as if someone had slapped him. But it wasn’t whatever she’d been saying, he realized. It was something else…a sense of dread crawling up his body, the prescience of wild things. The forest had grown too quiet by half. He held a finger to his lips, growing still.
A whistle peeled through the trees, rattling with too much frantic breath. Then it stopped. The color drained from Tahl’s cheeks.
“We have to get out of here.”
Technically, his first thought should have been Tristan, he’d admit later. But in the moment, all he could think about was getting Bryar out of there, before his hot-headed friend could get tangled up in a situation beyond her control. He had an arrow drawn and a tense expression on his face, the sour stiffness of fear striking him like a match, his eyes panning around them for any sign that the enemy was near. When a twig snapped, he fired before he’d even properly looked.
The arrow thudded into a blue uniform. It was both lucky, and unlucky.
“Now!” He hissed, and they ran.
It would have made sense to him to flee into the woods. You know, away from the sounds of fighting. But Bryar, naturally, had other ideas, and Tahl found himself sprinting after her back in the direction of camp, cursing whenever he could catch his breath. He was lean from living as an outlaw so long; leaner even than he’d been as a forest-bound hunter, and in this moment he was glad of it. Their light bodies practically flew through the trees, fleet-footed as deer. The arrow he had knocked rattled against the bow with every stride, but otherwise they made no more noise than any other woodland creature.
Until they made it to the battle, that is. Tahl came to a halt with a shout. Bryar did not.
“Where are you going!?” He called after her, fear turning his voice into a reed. Nearly as soon as he’d said it, she was gone – just another body in a sea of them, her nondescript clothes blending in with all the other rebels in Tristan’s camp. Tahl’s sun-bright eyes searched the scene before him, unable to land on anything for more than a moment. All that training he’d had evaporated like morning dew. What was he supposed to do? How could he possibly help? Bryar, he had to help Bryar,
He was making to follow her when a body collided with his, pinning him to a nearby tree.
Tahl didn’t know what to focus on: the man who’d nearly sent him careening into the dirt, the explosion very close to where he’d just been standing, the chaos of war beyond where his sister was no doubt wreaking a havoc of her own. He settled on the one closest, as the other man rolled partway off him, looking up at him feebly, as if exhausted.
Anapa?
If he’d had a free hand, he would have reached for him. It was unmistakably his princely friend, though nearly unrecognizable in trousers and a shirt and the flush of exertion written all over his face. Tahl wasn’t sure if he’d voiced his realization out loud, or if the first words out of his mouth were: “What the fuck are you doing here?” You can’t be here! he wanted to add, but he was following the direction of his friend’s outstretched hand, and saw the guard knock another exploding bolt.
Tahl did not hesitate. He lifted his bow high, pulled the fletching to his cheek, and fired. The guard dropped like a stone. Something rippled through Tahl’s stomach, like nausea but worse.
Killing people was not what he’d signed up for.
“Thanks,” he managed to choke out, and grasped Anapa’s shoulder before pulling another arrow from his quiver. Thank the Gods it was enchanted, and would not run out even in this insanity. There was a horrible howl from somewhere in the middle of the melee, then, and a moment later the rebels were calling a retreat. Tahl cursed again.
“We have to catch up with them,” he told his friend, although by his tone it was obvious he thought it an impossible task. Wolves were beginning to descend on the clearing, and there were fires everywhere, and the retreat was occurring on the other side of all that. The only way they’d make it was if…
Tahl looked at Anapa, brows drawn. Then he closed them, and let the black fire flicker up from his wrists. Soon it had engulfed him, replaced his skin and hair and clothing with shadowy flame. His eyes were dark pits; his voice was an unsettling rasp.
They'd only make it out alive if they used what power they had.
“Let’s go,” he said, nodding, and made to circumnavigate the camp.
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