Page 133 of The First Scar
The entire cell door ripped free with a shriek of tortured metal. I hurled it aside like it weighed nothing.
It crashed against the far wall hard enough to crack the stone.
For one second, the guards were too shocked to react.
That was all I needed.
I lunged—screaming, fangs elongated—and launched myself at the closest one. My feet landed on his hips, crouching against him like a gargoyle, one hand gripped his shoulder for purchase. The other ripped his sword from its sheath.
I held his gaze as I swung.
His little friend's head hit the stone before the body even realized it was dead. I pushed off his upper body and landed over the severed head. The guard stumbled back, hand grasping stupidly for a sword that was already in my grip.
Serenya's whimpering echoed up from below.
I snarled—and, without fanfare, drove his own blade straight through his throat.
Then I ran.
The stolen sword was wet in my grip. My satchel slapped against my hip with every stride. The corridor was narrow—close enough that my elbows scraped the walls when I took the corners too fast, the stone tearing skin I didn't have time to notice. Puddles splashed under my boots, shallow and black, the water so stagnant it had a film that clung to the leather. Above me, pipes groaned through the rock—a deep, intestinal sound, like the dungeon itself was digesting.
I followed the echo of Serenya's whimpers. The sound bounced off the walls and split, came from everywhere and nowhere, pulling me left, then right, then down a staircase so steep my knees nearly buckled on the landing. The air changed as I descended. Warmer. Thicker. It sat on my tongue like a coin.
A body slumped against the wall ahead—Black Talon armor, throat opened in a ragged line.
The one who'd backhanded me when I spat blood in his eye.
Someone had gotten to him first.
Another guard rounded a corner. I didn't slow down. My blade found his heart before he could raise his weapon, and I was past him before his body hit the stone.
Serenya. Serenya. Serenya.
Her name was a heartbeat. A prayer. The only thing keeping me upright.
I rounded another corner, muscles coiled, ready for another fight—
And stopped.
The corridor opened into a vaulted chamber—some kind of old supply junction, crates rotting against the walls, the remains of a collapsed shelf spilling rusted tools across the floor. A single torch guttered in a wall bracket. The air here was different. Moving. A draft from somewhere deeper.
I smelled them before I saw them—sweat, oiled steel, and the earthy musk of the mud they used to mask their scent on raids. They crowded the junction until the air went hot and stagnant.
Grey cloaks peeled from the dark between the crates.
My sword arm dropped.
Kaelen. Moving with that quiet authority that bent the air around him. Brannick was at his side, his usual warmth replaced by a grim, hard edge. Maxx, a shifting shadow, his eyes glinting with unholy anger.
And Dreadscale.
A storm given flesh. His dragon tattoo smoldered faintly beneath his skin, his gaze finding mine across the dim corridor.
My knees almost went. The sword tip dropped and scraped against the stone—a sound that gave me away completely. Every muscle I'd been running on, every shred of adrenaline holding me upright, buckled at the sight of them. My throat locked. My eyes burned.
They came.
Brannick was closest. I grabbed him in a—quick, silent—hug and felt his arms crush me back for just a fleeting moment before we let go.
