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Death cocked its head in her direction.

That familiar caress tingled against her mind.Look away.The voice raged with icy warning as the soldier on the ground became engulfed in shadows … and split in two.

On perfectly placed feet, the figure twirled around with a mighty swing and shoved the sword into the center of the last’s face.

It stood there, the uneven breaths a companion to the roaring silence. The moonlight enough to cast a white glow onto its blood-covered form, illuminating it from face to boots.

With the sword by its side, its hand raised one last time. The two remaining necks were entangled with smoke and shadows. An effortless twist of its wrist later, Death enclosed its shaking fist until no breath filled their lungs.

Gray-faced, they plummeted to the bloody dirt below.

It was over.

Or so she thought.

She could see it now, its face under a black hood.

Hisface was peppered in fiery rage, the shadows and smoke faded, making way for the view of bulging, blackened veins on his arms and neck. His eyes, pools of ink that devoured the moonlight in their intensity.

With a few menacing steps, he crossed the battlefield, clearing the distance between them. Before she could flinch, that dark voice rasped with such power—such force and intensity—that he could have summoned the sun to scorch the earth to its bitter end. “Run.”

The High King’ssoldiers rounded a corner of the alley moments before Alora escaped.

The air, spiked with an unnatural winter’s chill for the season, stung her face as she foolishly peered over her shoulder, knowing Death was close behind. As she did, she tripped but didn’t find herself flat on the ground.

Broad, icy hands wrapped around her upper arm and pulled her to her feet. Steadied her. And that grip didn’t leave, not as he pulled her forward, and she failed to meet his pace, realizing her legs were giving out.

“Eyes forward,” he sharply commanded.

Only ten steps would burst them into the next street, unaware of what dangers waited.

Alora wanted to call him to stop. When, suddenly, three riders adorned in battle-black armor and bright crimson cloaksfilled the end of the alleyway, led by a white horse with an empty saddle.

Death’s hand vanished from her arm, leaving whorling darkness where it had been.

Then, he vanished.

Panic tore through her, almost making her stop when a clatter of metal crashed behind her. This time, when Alora turned, Death was twenty feet behind her, appearing again within a storm of smoke and shadows. His sword collided against another, fighting off the soldiers in their pursuit. Just as she had witnessed before, cutting them down with ease and perfection.

His abyss for eyes found her as shadows replaced his figure, vanishing again.

Before she could blink, he was holding onto her arm once more.

“What did I say?Move!” Death guided her forward until they reached the riders waiting on anxious horses. Without hesitation, his muscled arms lifted her into an empty saddle and climbed behind her, toweling his arms around Alora’s sides before grabbing the reins.

Sucking in breath after breath, Alora tried to center herself. Tried to rationalize what was happening.

With a swift kick, their white horse reared up, and Death thundered, “Ride!”

Night air whipped Alora’s face, stinging her tear-drenched cheeks. It was strange—the false sense of safety entangling her by hands that were covered in the remains of the once breathing. And as they rode toward the north of Telldaira and those bloodstained arms toweled around her waist, covering her with his cloak, gripping the reins … a sickening unease struck her nerves.

She knew them.

Knew those bright crimson cloaks. Had seen them in the tavern leaving by the order of?—

The stranger in the tavern … it washimbehind her.

Alora struggled to feel the breath in her lungs.Where are they taking me?Falling rigid when he shifted in the saddle and his fingers brushed across the front of her ripped tunic. One broad hand gently splayed across her middle, pulling her against him tighter in the saddle.