The clash spilled into chaos. Shadows darted across the pavilion floor, blades flashing under the lantern light as Rowan's men met the assassins head-on. The ring of steel was sharp, echoing against the marble pillars; cries of effort and of pain punctured the humid night air.
Lucien's sword arced, catching one assassin's dagger mid-thrust. He pivoted, his free hand seizing the man's wrist and twisting until bone cracked. The dagger clattered to the floor, but another shadow lunged for him from behind. Before Lucien could turn, an arrow cut the air. It buried itself in the attacker's chest, fired cleanly from Rowan's bow.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met across the chaos: Lucien, dark and unreadable; Rowan, grim and steady. Enemies by birthright, allies by necessity.
