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I grated my teeth together, baring them at the group. “How about we kill you instead?” Behind my back, I was motioning for the others to run. From the sounds of it, none did.

“Who is the bounty from?” Gunnar asked.

The leader of their group stopped twenty paces away. Far enough to give us a fake sense of security. Close enough to see the hunger in his gaze. But they hadn’t fought yet. That gave me hope that they didn’t want to.

I certainly didn’t. I wanted a moment of peace that the labyrinth didn’t seem intent to give.

“The bounty comes from Leif Balgoran. Dimitri’s wolves spread the news this morning. Seems to be an easier prize than finding the center of this endless maze.”

Anger turned to fear. Others would think so too. How many would turn away from their hunt for the center and fix their sights on me?

A young man at the leader’s side notching his arrow with an unsteady hand, twisting his lip between his teeth while his brown eyes tripped from one of us to the other. Clark and I exchanged glances.

“We don’t have anyone in our company by the name of Ren,” I said. There was always a chance it could work.

But the leader just grinned. “Leif is an excellent artist. He’s drawn your likeness perfectly.”

I would kill Leif for this. I no longer felt guilty over my plan to trade his life for Delilah’s. I’d set her free and condemn him to an existence as a Stone God without looking back.

But first, we had to survive. All of us.

“How about you take nine hundred and we’ll keep six hundred,” the leader suggested.

Lies. He’d likely kill my companions and keep the reward for his people.

Thought they’d come for me, their quivering gazes locked onto Clark, and one glance at him told me why. He looked like a spark before it turned to flames, one puff of oxygen away from igniting into the kind of flame that would devour us all.

If I didn’t save him, he might die today. Before I could tell Clark to leave me, the one with the arrow turned his aim away from me and toward Clark.

Without thinking of the consequences, I flung my dagger at him. It sank into his chest.

That ended our negotiations.

Clark charged while they were still absorbing the sudden death of their ally, and we descended upon them.

Two things happened at once. The mist scattered underfoot, proving they only had five—now four—in their company, reinforcing my theory that he was a liar. And two, each of their eyes grew wide.

They didn’t expect us to fight, I realized.

But we’d gotten good at fighting.

Aiden loosed his first arrow, the shaft streaking through the air to bury itself in the throat of an enemy archer. The man gurgled and collapsed, his companions barely having time to react before Gunnar surged forward, his axe cleaving through the mist. He roared as he swung, the blade biting deep into a swordsman’s shoulder.

Clark and I charged straight for the leader. His sword flashing in the dim light. He barely raised his sword in time to deflect Clark’s strike, then had to dive back to avoid my axe. His boots skidded in the mud.

“Grab the girl!” the leader barked.

But his group was already faltering. Aiden fired arrow after arrow from the shadows, his precision thinning their ranks. Harald was a whirlwind of steel, his blows reckless but devastating, and Gunnar stood right beside him through it.

Their leader braced his feet before striking at us again, feinting to the left before jabbing right. I slashed my axe against his before it could reach Clark, and felt the weight tear from his hands. When I yanked up, I let my steel rip against his thigh.

He cried out. Knees collapsed into the muck.

Clark’s sword came across the skin of his neck before he could stand.

“Don’t move.”

The battle stilled, the last of the rival group either dead or too wounded to fight. Gunnar stood panting, blood dripping from his axe, while Aiden and Astrid emerged from the reeds.