Page 43 of Fate of Echoes and Embers (Heirs of Elydor #3)

ISSA

And so, it began. The battle for my home, one I never expected or asked for.

But sometimes, challenges meet us despite our wishes, and this was one of those times.

I refused to be humbled, being forced to ask for permission to enter from a guard who had accompanied me hunting too many times to count.

Draven was at fault, and he would pay for his treachery.

“If he or any of the Gyorian mercenaries?—”

“I know, Marek. I will stand behind you and Adren. We’ve discussed this many times.”

Adren looked to the trees. We could not see them. Though their tents might shine like stars in the sky, the deep-blue color of the Aetherian warriors’ clothing blended seamlessly with the trees.

Thank you, father, for the idea. I will secure Hawthorne once again in your and mother’s memory. That is a promise.

The portcullis lifted. Though I hadn’t expected the two Gyorian warriors standing on the other side. They were also clearly just as surprised to see Adren.

“You, remain,” the taller one said. His nose looked as if it had been broken many times. The other was small, for a Gyorian warrior, though still larger than most human men.

In response, Adren strode forward, blatantly disregarding the order.

Marek and I followed his lead. At first, I assumed they would stop us.

The two flanked us instead, grumbling but otherwise saying nothing as we walked through the empty outer courtyard.

As planned, we stopped before heading through the second gatehouse.

“This is far enough,” I said. “Fetch Draven.”

The broken-nose one laughed. “We do not take orders from you. Draven is Lord of Hawthorne Manor. You are to be brought to the keep.”

“Either fetch Draven,” Marek said, “or our combined forces outside the gate will make their way inside and kill every one of you bastards who colluded with him, leaving Draven to rule over a pile of ruins.”

The shorter one took a step toward Marek. In response, in a movement I barely caught, he somehow created a chord of water that he wrapped around the mercenary’s feet. While his companion stumbled to the ground, broken nose raised his arms as Adren barked, “Don’t do it.”

“Remove the binding, now,” was his response, on behalf of his friend.

Adren sighed as if the entire incident bored him. I turned to see my guards, positioned as usual at the gatehouse, staring down but otherwise not moving. They were clearly terrified, and I didn’t blame them. Getting between Elydorians in battle was not wise for humans, no matter the circumstance.

“We will not be going to the keep,” I said in my most commanding voice, hoping it didn’t sound as shaky as it felt. “I would prefer not to meet the same fate as my commander. Fetch Draven,” I repeated.

“There is no need.”

My entire body tensed.

He emerged from the early-morning shadows; Draven’s ability to manipulate auras meant he could conceal his energy. Slinking in the shadows was something he did well, no doubt having served him throughout the years in ways I never realized.

“Release him.”

Marek did, the Gyorian not at all pleased at being so easily incapacitated. Though Marek must have gathered moisture from the air, how had he managed it without anyone noticing?

“Is it true?” I asked, looking my father’s old friend straight in his eyes. “Did you kill Warren?”

Draven sighed, as if I bored him. “He didn’t have to die. Warren chose his fate.”

So it was true. The ache in my chest intensified. Ignoring it, I pressed him.

“Who else?” I demanded.

“Issa, my dear?—”

I lunged toward him at the condescending tone. Would have reached him, too, if Marek and Adren hadn’t pulled me back. At Draven’s laugh, I lost all sense of where I was and what was happening. I would kill him before this was through.

“She always did have difficulty controlling her emotions. Women can be so… ah, ah, my Thalassari friend, I would not do that.”

Whatever Marek had been about to do, he stopped as the outer courtyard was suddenly filled with five, ten, more than twenty Gyorian mercenaries. I’d tangled with them enough times over the years to know, and appreciate, their sheer strength.

At the first gust of wind, Marek yelled, “Behind me, Issa.”

I did as he said, my fingers still itching to slice Draven’s throat.

It took the Gyorians a moment to realize what was happening, that they were being swept off their feet from above.

As expected, chaos reigned. Adren stomped his feet, splitting the ground beside Draven open.

But instead of falling into it, he jumped to the side, saving himself at the last moment.

Marek was engaged with two Gyorians as others shouted orders to dismantle the stone wall and use it to attack the trees.

Hawthorne would be decimated, just as Adren predicted.

Marek, forgive me.

Pulling my knife out from my belt, I bolted toward Draven, ignoring Marek’s shout for me to stop.

Draven, anticipating me, grabbed my wrist so completely that I thought it might have snapped.

The knife dropped harmlessly to the ground, which rumbled beneath my feet.

A quake, meant to disrupt. Disarm. I held my ground, pretending I was on the deck of Tidechaser during a storm.

Not just any storm. We were in the Depths. Violent winds from above, calls of “Thalassari” from behind. And the man who’d started it all, dragging me by the wrist, away from the fray.

Promise me, Issa, you will look after our people.

My father’s words echoed in my ears. I would not allow Hawthorne to be reduced to embers, a once-flaming beacon of hope for all humans that we could survive even with Elydorian opposition at our doorsteps.

If we fight, we lose.

I stopped struggling. Allowed Draven to believe he’d subdued me. With my free hand, I reached down to my boot, dragging behind me in the dirt. Taking a deep breath, summoning every bit of strength left in me, I began to wriggle and kick so Draven was forced to stop.

When you strike, make it count. A wounded stag is dangerous.

I would make it count.

Circling my arm and aiming for his chest, I didn’t hesitate. The knife embedded itself with a sickening thud that I would never forget. One moment, my wrist felt as if it were being crushed in a vice. The next, it was free and my head bounced off of the ground.

The next, Draven was above me, screaming in pain and rage.

But then, he was lifted from the ground and tossed as if he were a sack of wheat.

Adren stood above me, watching him. But he didn’t move.

Even when Draven attempted to stand, something I couldn’t do.

Instead, I watched from my dirt bed, the courtyard grass tickling my cheek.

Marek.

His hand was lifted, though I couldn’t see what was happening. Adren scooped me up into his arms, and for better or worse, I had a clear view now of the same water ties he’d used on the Gyorian being tightened around Draven’s throat.

“He’s gone, Marek,” Adren called to him.

He either didn’t hear him, or didn’t care. His fingers twisted and I looked away.

“Draven is dead,” Adren yelled, so loud, it was like a clap of thunder.

A twist of water, like a beacon, rose from in front of Marek up into the sky. With it, the winds stopped. Everything stopped. My head throbbed. My wrist, I was all but certain, was broken. I’d close my eyes, just for a moment.

And then, blessedly, it all went black.