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She had laid ruination to the room, but not a speck of dust touched Kaine. He wasn’t there to feel it.

He was never there.

In her deadly eruption, the entire tavern had been reconstructed into a mess of embers, ash-covered flesh, and screams.

Chaos.

Then they were pulling her.

Ripping her along the floorboards by her hair, pulling so tight, her vision spotted believing at any moment they would rip it from her scalp.

The hard wood of a wall smacked into her back, knocking the air from her lungs as a warm hand clamped around her throat. They were speaking—screaming—at her, but she couldn’t determine what language.

Her head slammed into the wall, rattling what remained of her vision. Sending the borders of her mind dancing with darkness when she felt a whimper choke from her mouth.

Hands raided her body. Inside her cloak. Brushing along her belt and down her legs with brutal urgency. She lifted her arm to swat the hand away but was only met with a crushing grip. Her wrist enveloped and slammed into the wall beside her as the other hand continued its exploration.

Alora’s eyes shot open the moment the male’s hand pulled her sword from the sheath, disarming her as far as he could determine. But they didn’t search her back. Didn’t find where she’d hidden her obsidian dagger.

If she could only get to it. If she could collect her senses enough, stabilize her mind and breathing enough to wield it…

She tried to deepen a breath, but that hand around her throat squeezed tighter. So tight, she was sure the darkness would claim her.

“Get your hands off me,” choked out, but it was more a gurgle of words than anything.

They were snickering then. At least five voices echoed off the walls of the hallway. “I didn’t think Marked Ones were so stupid.” She didn’t recognize that voice, didn’t recognize the cold face of the male as her hand inside her cloak drifted behind her—slowly.

She had one chance. One swift swing to sink into soft flesh and flee. And maybe it was a fool’s hope. Maybe she could only take down one before the rest swarmed her. She still had to try. One less Raven in the world was better than nothing.

One ripple in time could stir an unending wave, and she would be its curator.

“Are you alone?” The stench of his breath waved over her senses, stirring her focus to sharpen on the shine of silver on his chest and the menacing scratch of purple hanging from his shoulders.

“It wouldn’t matter if she was. From the way the inside of the tavern looks, I would say they are all dead, including Hawke and Twinn,” another voice growled from behind.

Alora could just barely see over her captor’s shoulder, glimpsing four more Ravens casting shadows from the blazing, glowing white gleam of her fire still burning inside.

Taking a quick glance over his shoulder, the Raven gave Alora just enough time to wrench her knee up, slamming it into his groin before dropping him to his knees.

Pushing from the wall and choking on smoke-filled air entering her lungs, Alora began backing away—toward the doorat the end of the hall—toward all the doors. Any one of them a potential escape.

“Stay back,” she rasped and held it in front of her.

The four Ravens standing stalked closer, their focus entirely on her, on the gleam of the crystal on the handle, on the edge of her blade. Metal slid against leather, and she felt her heartbeat race as, one by one, their swords were unsheathed. All trained on her. On the very small blade in her hand.

“What you going to do with that,princess?” The one closest to her stepped forward, taunting, gesturing with the tip of his sword at her blade.

Clutching his balls, the male on the floor rose, digging the edge of his blade into the floorboards, lip curled to bare his teeth.

“Stab it through your ugly eye,” Alora avowed through gritted teeth, taking another step back as the floorboards shuddered.

They all felt it. Like something plummeted to the earth, rattling the tavern … rattling all of Zyllyryon. A tremor that cracked deep into the core, haunting every living thing clear down to Firekeeper’s realm.

Alora’s blood went molten. Knowing that ancient power … knowing the only thing capable of such ominous force.

The white-hot glow from the tavern suddenly dimmed as if the thunderclouds outside had roared along the ceiling. Darkness swirled around their heads and tendriled around their boots before a voice, low and vicious, and carrying with it the sound of damning nightmares, wickedly snarled from behind.

“It is unwise to touch what is not yours.”