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Dark satisfaction filled her when she never missed her mark. More than a few Verlantian soldiers fell—or at least let out a cry of pain—when her arrows struck true. The vicious part of herself almost wished she had more time to take out all the bloody monsters as she reached the throne room.

Screams and the ring of metal against metal echoed around the stone room.

Her gaze snapped to the dais where her parents fought off a few soldiers.

Fear trickled down Wren’s spine.

Britta wasn’t with them.

Heart pounding, she scanned the room, chest heaving with rising panic. Where was her sister?

Calm down. They would have secured the heir above all else.

An arrow whistled through the air, and she ducked. It embedded in the scarred wooden door behind her. Rowen grabbed her from behind and wheeled her around.

“Found Britta,” he breathed. “The table.”

Her attention honed in on a table strewn with wedding gifts. One of the wrapped boxes had fallen to the floor, exposing its contents of delicate silver candlesticks and jeweled goblets for all the battle to see. A gift from the south, going by the craftsmanship. A little hand snuck out from beneath the tablecloth and pulled back one of the silver candlesticks.

Good girl. Britta knew to secure a weapon no matter what.

The little girl peeked out once again, her eyes widening in terror.

Wren had to get her out.

She edged toward the table, cursing as more elves filed into the room. They’d almost doubled in number. They were everywhere. Ceaseless, never-ending. Wren began to absorb the enormity of the situation she was in. It was grave. Likely, everyone she loved would not make it out of this situation alive.

Don’t think that way. You will get out with Britta. You have to.

Wren gritted her teeth and soldiered on, fighting her way to her little sister. She cursed as an elf caught her upper arm with his blade and she dropped her arrow. Rowen took out the solider as she curled her hand over the seeping wound and made her way toward Britta. Her little sister gaped at the carnage and Wren was struck by how small and quivering Britta was. She wasn’t even seven years old. Her wide green eyes were currently taking in horrors she should never have to see at such a young age. Tears coursed down her face as Wren and Rowen finally cleared a path to Britta. Wren threw herself beneath the table and scrambled beneath the tablecloth. Her little sister cried out and scuttled away.

“It’s okay, Britta,” Wren whispered. “It’s just your sissy. Don’t be afraid.”

Britta slapped her hands over her ears and began to rock. She was about to have an episode.

Wren set her bow down and wiped her bloody hands on her dress before she slowly scooted toward her sister. She held her hands out and smiled encouragingly.

“Come here, I have you.”

Carefully, she reached out and touched Britta’s scraped knee. Her sister flinched and stopped rocking.

“That’s it, little girl,” Wren crooned. “It’s just me.”

Britta’s bottom lip wobbled, and she threw herself into Wren’s arms. She clutched her sister to her chest and tried not to cry as Britta shook uncontrollably. “Hush, little one,” she murmured, urging Britta to turn her head against Wren’s chest and calm down—perhaps it would work this time. “It’s all right. We will get out of here. Just focus on your breathing.”

“We need to move,” Rowen grunted, his silhouette just visible from beneath the table.

He was right. They needed to move. Someone would soon discover them.

She lifted the tablecloth and scanned the ruinous throne room. It was absolute chaos. Rowen fought in front of them, keeping the soldier’s attention on him, not on who hid just behind him. In this moment, Wren had never been prouder of her to-be-husband. He grunted as an elf landed a blow against his side and she had to look away. Rowen was giving her this time to map a path of escape for them, not worry over him.

Her gaze latched onto a familiar head of hair. Anneke.

Her mum’s dark hair had fallen out of its jeweled net, flying wildly about her face as she slashed around her with her favorite double blades. A surge of pride went through Wren at the sight of her mother giving as good as she got; even now, with an adult daughter, the woman was still in the prime of her life. Wren had never, not once in all her nineteen years, thought of her mum as vulnerable. Even with her scars. Even with her gentle voice and calm nature. She was a force to be reckoned with.

Anneke dispatched her opponent and spun to meet her next attacker, but then an arrow lodged itself in her chest. Her mum’s mouth opened in a silent cry before a soldier kicked her to the ground. King Oswin faltered when his wife buckled to the stone floor, watching helplessly as she lay there, struggling to breathe, before he began to fight all the harder.

“Mu—” she began, then snapped her mouth shut as Britta began to lift her head. Wren pressed her sister’s face against her chest as she began to cry. Britta didn’t need to see her mother like that.