Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 64: To Kill a Goddess

"You're here," Penny said.

Isolde looked down. The princess was sprawled on her back, her red hair fanned around her like a pool of blood. Her eyes were hollow and sunken. But she was alive, Isolde thought, which was a promising start.

"I'm here." Isolde extended a hand. "The others?"

Penny clasped her hand. "Fighting." She winced as her ankle struck the ground. "We're all fighting." She paused. "Except for Grayson."

Isolde didn't need further explanation; she could tell what Penny meant by the look on her face. It was the same look she saw in the mirror every morning. "I'm sorry."

Penny brushed grass from her fighting leathers. "You've brought men?"

Isolde nodded. "Thousands."

Penny exhaled. "Thank gods. Who's that?"

Isolde turned. Most of her men were already engaged in battle; swords clashed, competing with the sound of dragons shrieking. She could see Axel engaging Halson, his teeth gritted in concentration.

Isolde pointed. "Axel Winterthorpe." She turned to a round middle-aged man dispatching a group of soldiers. "And that's General Graves, as well as..."

Her gaze paused on Wes. Ah. She didn't know his surname; only that most of the girls at the convent fancied him. The young lieutenant general kicked an attacking soldier in the chest, turning to flash her a grin.

"Wes Whitewood."

Isolde blinked. "Whitewood?"

Wes mopped sweat from his brow. "Yes, Your Holiness."

Her heartbeat sped up. That surname wasn't common. In fact, she'd only heard of one other person with that name. "As in Bo Whitewood?"

Wes lowered his hand. "He was my uncle."

Isolde searched his face. She could see it now: they had the same lopsided smile, the same shade of golden-brown eyes. Her throat burned.

"I'm sorry," Isolde said. "Your uncle was a close friend of mine."

Something in Wes's face softened. "I know. Bo never stopped talking about the snjya that he met outside a convent one night." His mouth tipped up. "He said she was on a mission to save the world."

"Oi!" Graves called. "Whitewood!" The general's face was exasperated. He was knee-deep in a soldier's chest, yanking his blade free with a sickening squelch. "When you're done having your tea party, we could use some help."

Wes waved cheerfully. "Noted!"

Penny's face changed. "Watch out!"

Isolde twisted.

Something blurred past her. A sharp sting began in her left shoulder, and she looked at where a knife lay on the grass. Halson stood close by, his lips pulled back in a snarl. Wes stepped forward, any trace of humour gone from his face.

"Behind me," Wes ordered.

"No." Isolde unsheathed the dagger in her foot. "He belongs to me."

Wes's frown deepened. "But—"

"Let her go," Axel said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "She's right. Halson's life is hers to claim."

Their eyes met. There was sadness in Axel's gaze, but something else, too. An odd sort of pride. His gaze fell to the iron ring tied around her neck.

"Go," Axel said.

Isolde ran.

She had limited experience with hand-to-hand combat. Everything Isolde knew — everything she'd learned — came from Axel, who'd shown her basic manoeuvres on the long boat journey over to Wynterlynn. Halson had two decades of training. She had only weeks.