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“Stop!” came a shout from behind her.

Grace didn’t wait for help. She stomped on her captor’s foot and sent an elbow into his gut. The man crumpled forward, crying out again as his grip loosened. Shoving his arm up with the heels of her palms, Grace ducked out of his grasp.

The man bent low in pain. “Blasted Robbins.”

Grace went for the mask. The injured man shuffled out of her way and tried to escape, but her Rogue rounded on him and blocked his exit. Grace’s eyes zeroed in on the patch of gold on the cloak.

Every inch of her erupted in itchy burning. Had that gold touched her? Desperately, she wished to search herself, but she must deal with the masked men first.

“Out of my way, Rogue.”

Hearing such vitriol spat in the same smooth baritone of the Rogue that Grace knew felt surreal.

The gilded Rogue charged her Rogue. Instead of dodging, the masked rebel swung a fist at the man. It landed, sending her captor stumbling face first, his warped verdure cloak swinging awkwardly behind him, a few drips of gold hit the ground.

Grace hissed in panic. But only unblemished cloth brushed her Rogue’s leg.

“Careful!” she cried.

Her Rogue didn’t seem to understand, or at least wouldn’t listen. As Grace stood, caught between watching in horror and scanning for gold near her, he went for the other man’s mask.

What am I doing?Grace screamed at herself. The gilded Rogue posed a threat to her people and her town, and she was dancing around in fear of mystic gold.

In that moment, Grace made a decision. Avoiding risks had its place, but now was a time to act.

She darted forward, skipping over drops of gold, still aware of the infected cloak, but in the fray. The man on the floor flailed,using only one arm to defend against her Rogue’s hands as he pulled at the leather mask, trying to lift it.

Grace needed to contain the danger.

The gilded Rogue’s movement had caused some liquefaction of the reflective gold on the cloak, but miraculously, besides those few drops on the floor, it seemed contained to the enchanted cloth.

She spied a nearby beech tree absent of gold. With a mad dash at the trunk, she scrambled up and leapt to grab a small branchlet, snapping it from its branch and landing lightly on her feet. She returned to the men in moments.

The mask was off, but the pinned man moved so frantically, she couldn’t see him clearly. Her focus needed to be elsewhere anyhow.

Watching for an untainted part of the dangerous cloak, Grace brought the branchlet down on the cloth with her whole weight, bracing for the protective magic to rebound. The magic hit her with a small force, but she held steady through the bounce upward, pushing down with all her strength and a good amount of her body weight. The branchlet didn’t pierce the cloak—its magic was too strong for that—but she could keep the cloth trapped in place.

As the gilded Rogue flailed, the cloak pulled at his throat—a fitting retribution for his hand on her throat.

“Remove the clasp on the cloak!” she shouted.

The gilded Rogue started to splutter and cough. He abandoned clawing at the now loose face cloth of her Rogue, instead pulling at his own cloak until finally the clasp released, and he rolled forward, out of the verdure cloak.

Grace winced as the golden splotch folded over onto a yet unaffected part of the cloth and liquified.

She released the branchlet and dashed toward the two men, urging them away from the cloak, but they had started swinging at each other again.

Grace grabbed on to a leg and pulled back, trying to topple the gilded Rogue.

“Grace. Grace, it’s me!” her Rogue hissed in a tone not fully altered by his drooping face cloth. Curses! She’d grabbed the wrong man!

Her Rogue hopped about, his still-secured cloak swishing madly around him. His opponent landed a clawing blow, and the double hit to his balance sent him sprawling onto the ground, hood slightly askew. His face cloth was gone, snatched by the gilded Rogue.

“Sorry!” Grace cried and hurried to her Rogue’s side, pulling his hood over hair peeking out from the rim, hoping only she had seen the inky black curls. At least he’d fallen far clear of any gold. He held his arm across the bottom half of his face, trying to shield what the mystic cloth no longer did.

A maniacal laugh rang through the copse, jolting Grace’s already panicked heart and pulling her attention fast as a stroke of a scythe.

“Imbeciles. You think you can best me. You’ll hang, both of you! I’ll see it done.”