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off by the horizontal swipe of a blade. He threw himself backward, and did a quick roll, leaping back onto his feet, sword up on the defensive. He could have groaned with frustration; his attacker was a woman. An angry woman, face contorted with blood lust, a wild light in her pale blue eyes, but a woman, regardless. Aaric defended himself from her onslaught. Skies above, but she was fast. She nearly skewered him through his middle. He stayed on the defensive, unable to bring himself to fight back. He couldn’t kill a woman. He wouldn’t.
    A ball of fire streaked past Aaric’s head from behind him, slamming into the woman. She screamed in pain and rage as the fire took hold of her clothes and flesh. She dropped her weapon and rolled on the ground, trying to put out the flames. Aaric looked behind, and saw Adaryn, anger etched in her features, the magic roiling around her hands and wrists in its intensity. She obviously had no such qualms about harming another female. She ran to him and tried to pull him to the horses. “I’ve put Dahlia on Sorrel. We need to go, Aaric!”
    Aaric nodded, and after one last look at his attacker—the flames were still going strong, he didn’t think she was going to make it—ran after Adaryn.
    They got to the horses, and Adaryn gasped with shock to see Sorrel’s saddle empty. “No!” She frantically looked around her. “No! Where is she? Where’d she go? Dahlia!”
    Several figures ran out from the trees by the horses, bearing down on them. Adaryn faced them with a snarl and raised her hands. Magic exploded from her fingertips, rolling in waves over the approaching Twyli. Some were caught in the flames, others ducked to evade it, or cancelled it out with magic of their own, and advanced. Fyrsil ran past them to meet the closest Twyli, magic against magic.
    Adaryn joined him, her face a mix of anger and frustration. Aaric sighed with exasperation—he hated fighting—and leapt into the fray, silently thanking Bran for his combat lessons.
    Aaric fought against a tall Twyli. They scuffled, meeting their blades several times before the Twyli stumbled and slipped in the snow. Aaric felt relief that his opponent was male as he thrust the sword through the man’s chest, all the way up to the hilt.
    Yanking it free, he turned just in time to see another Twyli kick out, causing Fyrsil to stagger. The Twyli raised his sword for a killing blow, only to get a face full of blue fire cast from Adaryn. Fyrsil regained his footing and slew the Twyli.
    The battle seemed to last a lifetime; Aaric’s limbs felt like lead, and his breath came in gulping gasps, but just when he thought it’d never end, the fight was over.
    The remaining Twyli melted into the trees, leaving their wounded and dying. One of Fyrsil’s men, the man with pale eyes, ran around the site, stabbing each of the fallen Twyli in the heart. Dead or alive, it didn’t seem to matter to him. He stalked over to a fallen Twyli by Fyrsil, raising his blade to strike.
    “Wait.” Fyrsil spoke, and his servant lowered his blade immediately, stepping aside. Fyrsil bent down and rolled the Twyli over. It was clear the Twyli didn’t have long to live. The snow around his body was stained red with his blood. He coughed, looking up at Fyrsil. “Master?” he gasped, his eyes wide with shock. He blinked and gave a rattling gasp. It took Aaric a moment to realize he was laughing.
    Fyrsil knelt down, grabbing the dying man by the arms. “Why did you call me that?” he said, urgency in his tone. “Who do you think I am?” But the Twyli didn’t speak again. Fyrsil let him fall, wiping his hands on his trousers. “That was odd.” He tried to sound lighthearted, but his face was troubled.
    “No!” Adaryn staggered through the snow to Aaric, her face was flushed and tear-stained. “She’s gone, Aaric, they took her!”
    “Who?” Fyrsil asked, confused.
    Adaryn looked at him and her face crumpled. She sat in the snow, crying.