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He dodges a swinging club from the left, strikes out toward the right, thrusting the tip of his sword into another man’s gut.

Lady Killer encourages him to spin, nudging him in the right direction, and Kellyn just misses the tip of a staff jabbing where he once stood.

Three weapons swing toward him at once, and Kellyn bends backward in half, swinging Lady Killer in a wide arc to deflect every strike.

Petrik stands close to the wagon still, but that’s only because his weapon works better from afar. He casts the metal staff, which twirls end over end until it makes contact with one of the brigands. He wears no armor, and I hear ribs crack before the staff flies back toward Petrik, the magic causing it to return to the caster, always.

Five left.

Kellyn and Petrik wheedle down their numbers until only Devran and one of his men remain.

The extra man flees while Devran stares at us in wonder. “Who are you people?”

Kellyn Derinor, the mercenary.

Petrik Avedin, the scholar.

Ziva Tellion, the bladesmith.

Our relationships with each other are more complicated than ever. But we’re willing to fight, each and every one of us, to protect the other. Our adventures together have bonded us through blood.

Another cough comes from the wagon, and I’ve no choice but to wipe my hands on my own pants before climbing in to see to Temra.

“We’re travelers in a hurry,” Petrik answers, “and you’ve kept us long enough.” He throws the staff, catches Devran at the temple, and the leader goes down in a heap of limbs. Petrik runs after the bandit who fled.

I pull my sister’s hair away from her lips, trying to keep it from the blood gathering at her mouth. I look over my shoulder, about to throw another hateful glare at Kymora.

But there’s no one else in the cart.

I blink several times, as though that will conjure the warlord.

“Kellyn!” I shout.

When Temra’s fit subsides, I lower her gently to the floor once more and leap over the other side of the cart, where the cut ropes dangle.

Once my feet hit the ground, they’re pulled out from under me. My hands catch most of my weight as I hit the ground.

I flip over to find the warlord under the wagon. She rolls out, clambers atop me, and jabs the flat of her arm against my throat. I claw at her face, try to roll the woman off. My lungs search for air that won’t come.

And then Kellyn is there, hauling her away.

Kymora elbows him in the gut, and Kellyn bends in half as the air leaves him. I roll up onto my legs as she begins to flee. For awoman with a shattered knee, she limps along at an impressive pace, as though she doesn’t feel pain.

I race after her, grabbing for my hammers once more. On anyone else, it might be excessive, but Kymora is the most fearsome warrior in the whole of Ghadra. She intends to overthrow all the royals, to subject all to her rule. In our last fight, it took Kellyn, Petrik, and me working together with our magicked weapons just to bring her down.

This woman who brought my sister to death’s doorstep. Who made me an orphan. Who thought to use me to make magical weapons for her private army so she could take Ghadra without any resistance.

There is no one more dangerous.

Shecannotbe allowed to escape.

I dare not throw a hammer at her, for fear of giving her a weapon. The woman could make a twig threatening. Instead, I slam into her from behind with my shield hammer, sending her careening to the ground. She crawls along the grass, not missing a beat, reaching for a large stick—

“Touch it, and I will break your other knee,” I say, my voice dropping to a tone I don’t recognize.

She ignores me, her hand catching hold of the branch. She uses it and a nearby tree to hoist herself to her feet.

By then, Kellyn arrives, his sword at the ready.