Page 52 of The Truth-Teller's Bargain
“Good. Because I need more than just a taste.” And he doveinto her, the warmth and the pressure and the stimulation drawing a sharp gasp from her lips.
She brought a hand to her mouth to quiet herself—these tents were far from soundproof—but she couldn’t help the sounds he drew from her, nor the way her back arched and her fingers scratched at the wooden surface beneath her.
A voice at the tent opening interrupted them.
“Nakir.” It was Dawes.
Nakir stiffened with a growl. “Someone had better be dying,” he shot back darkly.
Dawes’s tone was urgent from the other side of the tent fabric. “The camp is under attack.”
“The Orders teach us how magic should behave.
Mystics remind us why the Academy fears exceptions.”
—MAGISTER CALLISTO THERAMON, MARGINALIA FOUND IN THE PERSONAL NOTES OF HER ORDER THEORY APPRENTICES
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hunter’s Moon, Day 24.
“Fuck.”
They both immediately sprang to action. Alethea yanked her dress back into place as Nakir raced toward his leather armor in the corner, hastily fastening the pieces together.
“Go,” Nakir ordered his general as he worked as quickly as possible. “You know what to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alethea hardly had time to think about how strange it was to hear Dawes call Nakir “sir” before he strapped a pair of swords to his belt and took her by the arms. He heaved her to his chest, staring down at her with the same burning intensity he had only a moment before.
“Do not go far from me,” he commanded. “Do you hear me? You must doexactlyas I tell you.”
She nodded weakly, and he led her from the tent.
The moment they emerged intothe camp, the night sky illuminated by torches and burning fires, they were immediately surrounded by chaos. Fires were already raging on the outskirts of the encampment. Alethea watched in horror at tell-tale signs of lightning and firestorms in the distance as screams and shouts filled her ears. Nakir’s grip on her was unrelenting. He drew one of his swords and held it ready as he scanned their surroundings. She didn’t have the experience to know what he was searching for—all she could see were soldiers rushing through camp, toward the melee that seemed to be focused heavily to the west.
Nakir led her to the north, back toward the glen—a direction that initially confused her. He was leading her away from the fighting, which meant he was leaving his soldiers to defend their camp without his help.
After a few minutes, the cacophony of battle had gradually faded into the background. Nakir was pulling her away from the fray. Fear gripped her—terror for the lives hanging in the balance because Nakir was not there to lend his aid.
“Wait,” she pleaded, but her words were abruptly silenced by a blade slicing through the darkness toward them. Nakir evaded the attack, agile, and Alethea stumbled into his back, narrowly avoiding the deadly strike.
The enemy soldier parried Nakir’s next attack, and it was at that moment Alethea became acutely aware of how much of a liability she was in battle. She was a mouse caught in a clash of dragons. She tried to pry herself away, to escape his grip and run to somewhere that he wouldn’t need to protect her, but he held firm even as he ran his sword through the enemy.
The blood made her want to vomit. She stared in horror as the man fell to the ground, the life draining from him. Tears filled her eyes, and she swallowed a scream.
But the sellsword wasn’t alone. Another adversary emerged from the shadows, brandishing a greatsword in both hands. Alethea gasped as Nakir’s grip on her tightened, his face twisted with pain. A blade had sliced across the bicep of his sword arm,and blood spilled from the wound, dripping down his elbow at an alarming rate.
“Let me go!” she begged.
“Never.” Nakir dragged her along as he swung his sword, ending the man who’d maimed him with a single slash to the neck. The enemy soldier fell to the ground, lifeless eyes staring into the darkness.
Alethea had no more time to panic at the sight of the bodies. Nakir only got a moment of reprieve before more of them appeared from the alleyways between tents. A colossal figure emerged from the shadows, a living mountain moving with an otherworldly grace.
Balthasar.
His long blond locs were loose and bloody, and his eyes were cold. Around him, enemy soldiers fell screaming even before his narrow blades found homes in their necks. He placed himself on the other side of Alethea, putting her between the two of them.
