"I've found their leader!" Ari shouted, her voice slicing through the din. Oriel wheeled high above, her vision feeding into Ari's steady eyes. "Range clear. He's marked."
Rowan couldn't see him, not through the crush of shields and snarling wolves, but Ari's tone left no room for doubt.
"Then take him!" Brennar bellowed.
Ari loosed. Her arrow hissed into the trees. For a breath the battlefield seemed to hold still—then a sharp cry rang out. A helm jerked back, and one of the armored figures staggered, a deep red line slashing across his cheek where the arrow had glanced. Blood poured down his face, but he didn't fall.
The raiders faltered. Just for a moment. But it was enough.
"Push!" Brennar roared, surging forward with his axe.
Rowan stumbled after him, gripping his harpoon. The haft trembled in his sweaty hands until he forced the water pouch open and splashed the tip. Ice shimmered briefly, hardening along the edge. He thrust clumsily at a wolf snapping for his leg—the harpoon cut deeper than it should have, freezing a patch of the beast's fur before Brennar's axe finished it with a brutal downswing.
Nyx appeared on Rowan's other side, shadow-wreathed. She moved like smoke, here one moment, behind an enemy the next. Her daggers punched through mail with frightening ease. "Eyes forward," she snapped as Rowan glanced at her, before fading again into the dark.
Bramble lunged through a gap in the wall of vines, dragging a soldier screaming into the thorns. Eldros lowered its great antlers and swept two wolves aside, trampling one beneath its hooves. For a moment, the battle tipped in their favor.
But the leader straightened, fury burning through his mask of blood. He tore the broken shaft from his helm and raised his blade high, barking a command in a harsh tongue.
The raiders slammed their shields together and shoved forward as one, spears darting like a nest of snakes. Wolves snapped at the gaps, pressing harder with each shove.
The bramble wall groaned. Vines snapped. Villagers stumbled back, cries of fear breaking across the line.
Ashwyn thrust his staff down. "Hold!" Roots surged upward, thick and fast, slamming into the shield wall. For every spearpoint that stabbed through, thorns curled back, dragging wood and flesh into their grip. But even Ashwyn's power was not endless—the strain etched deep lines into his face, sweat dripping down his brow.
Rowan's chest burned. His arms felt leaden. He could barely keep the harpoon steady. "They're too many," he gasped.
Brennar snarled, blood dripping from his arm. "Then we kill 'til they're less!" He swung wide, catching a soldier across the helm with enough force to topple him into the dirt.
The clash raged on. Wolves leapt and were beaten back. Arrows hissed from the walls, some true, some scattering wide. The villagers fought with desperation, but fear bled into their voices.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the raiders pulled back. The leader barked another command, and the wolves slunk to his side, snarling but obedient. Step by step, the line retreated into the trees.
Confusion rippled across the defenders. No victory cry rose—only heavy, disbelieving breaths.
"They're… leaving?" one of the women on the wall whispered.
Ashwyn did not lower his staff. His voice was grim. "Not defeated. They've measured us. They'll return, and not alone."
The villagers sagged where they stood, relief trembling in their limbs, but it was thin. This was no triumph. Only a reprieve.
Rowan leaned on his harpoon, sweat dripping from his jaw. His heart hammered. They had held—but barely.
---
The aftermath was chaos. Cries for help rang through the square. Villagers carried the wounded toward the well, bandages clutched in frantic hands.
Brennar pressed a rag to his bleeding arm, growling when Lyra tried to fuss over him.
"Sit," came a new voice, firm and cutting through the noise.
Rowan turned—and noticed her.
She wasn't like the panicked villagers. Her hands were steady, sure, moving with a healer's confidence. Stray strands of auburn hair clung to her dirt-smeared face, but her eyes—clear, green as spring leaves—never wavered from the wound she worked. Her tunic was plain, smudged with ash and blood, yet she carried herself with calm authority, as though the chaos bent around her instead of the other way around.
She knelt beside Brennar without hesitation, pressing herbs into the gash on his arm. "Keep flexing that muscle and you'll bleed out like a fool," she said, already binding the cloth tight.
For once, Brennar was silent. His mouth opened, then closed again, words failing him. He blinked twice, as if surprised by himself.
"Well," he managed at last, trying to cover the slip with a crooked grin, "if all healers looked like you, maybe I'd get wounded more often."
Rowan nearly choked. Ari rolled her eyes.
Tamsin didn't even glance up. "Keep talking and I'll tie it tighter."
Lyra smirked from the side. "Careful, Brennar. I think she's not impressed."
The big man looked down at the bandage instead of meeting her gaze, his grin faltering into something awkward. Rowan almost laughed—it was the first time he'd ever seen Brennar off balance and was amused by the tinge of red creeping up his neck.
Ashwyn, watching, murmured under his breath. "The strings draw tighter. Another has been chosen."
The young woman finally looked up, brushing her hair back. "My name is Tamsin," she said simply.
She tied the last knot in Brennar's bandage and finally straightened, brushing her palms on her tunic. Her green eyes flicked across the group—Rowan with his harpoon still dripping river water, Ari unstringing her bow, Nyx half in shadow, Ashwyn leaning heavy on his staff. "Where are you planning to go?" she asked.
Rowan hesitated. No one had spoken the answer aloud yet.
"Where we're needed," Ari said at last.
Tamsin gave a small, decisive nod. "Then I'll follow. My place is where the wounded will be. And from the looks of you all…" her mouth curved, not quite a smile, "…there will be plenty."