Page 92 of The Moon's Fury

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Whenmorningcame,shepretended to sleep while he readied to meditate.

“I know you’re awake,” he called. She ignored him, burrowing deeper into the blankets. She heard his sigh, then his receding footsteps, as he left the cave.

Last night, there had been affection in his eyes. Longing, even. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her cheek.

Why had he pulled away?

She didn’t have time to contemplate further because the sound of voices reached her ears.

They weren’t alone.

Cautiously, she approached the mouth of the cave.

She saw him, sword drawn.

Opposite him were three men.

“We thought the witch had killed you, brother,” drawled the one farthest from her. His cold voice sent shivers of dread crawling through her. “We came to kill her in your name. You’ve surprised us.”

He didn’t have a chance to respond, because one of the men saw her. Between one breath and the next, he’d nocked and loosed an arrow. Her feet unfroze, and she dove out of the way, but still it grazed her shoulder, a thin stream of blood dripping down her arm.

Chaos erupted in the clearing.

There was a flurry of movement, clanging of steel. She couldn’t tell which sword belonged to which man. Her light buzzed inside her, eager to be freed, but she silenced it—the men were moving so quickly, so close together, she couldn’t trust her aim.

One of the attacking men, a bulky man with rust-colored hair, seemed to switch sides, and then the fight was more evenly matched.

Twelve horrifying heartbeats later, it was over.

Two men lay dead.

The remaining two stared at each other, panting heavily.

“Son of a donkey,” sputtered the stranger between heaving breaths, dropping his sword and sprawling on the ground, brassy hair glinting in the sunlight. “Go check on her.”

He swiveled then, gray eyes appraising her, before refocusing on the man. Satisfied he wouldn’t attack, he darted over to her. Worried eyes assessed her shoulder, a gentle hand tipping her chin.

There was a gash on his face, a limp in his stride.

“You’re hurt,” she croaked.

He shook his head. “This is nothing.”

The light inside her disagreed.

It rushed through her veins, flowing to her hands until her palms were glowing. Tentatively, she brought them to the wound on his face. When her hand came away, the gash had closed, leaving not even a scar. They stared at each other in shock for a heartbeat, before his gaze sharpened with concern.

“Your nose is bleeding,” he said, wiping the blood away. “Come rest, Shamzaadi.” He led her to sit beside the firepit.

“Shamzaadi, eh? Adorable. That’s not what everyone else is calling—”

The man was silenced by a hard punch to his arm.

The two men tended to their remaining wounds. Then, they disappeared to bury the bodies of the fallen men, brothers in another life, somewhere deep in the forest.

When they came back, the three of them sat around the fire.