RHYS TORLIN IS ON THE MOVE. With only his wits and ideals, he infiltrates Synketros in hopes of unlocking the secret to its soldiers' loyalty. When a plan goes awry and found friends putting themselves into trouble to save him, Rhys must choose betw...
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Confusion marred the chorus of battlecries. The Heiress whirled to find most of her supposed faithful cohort looking around without aim. She turned to Rhys with a look so acidic she could have blasted him to dust with it. "What did you do?"
The only reason he was still alive was because the Heiress would rather demand of him the knowledge of what happened. He shook his head, though. "I'm just looking for the exit."
Were all-powerful beings like the Heiress capable of reading minds or detecting lies? Because he technically didn't have anything to do with the purple fumes, but he had something to do with who he thought sent it.
He wasted no time, though. While the Heiress was busy scanning the damages to her people and her camp, he threw himself forward. "Get him!" the Heiress screamed more like a whiny flower-child who couldn't get her way rather than a legendary leader of a big, bad interracial organization. "Those of you who can still follow me, bring him to my feet!"
Or she could just do the work and bring him to her feet herself. But big, bad leaders weren't known to do that, right? They always needed some henchmen to do manual things for them. And in the Heiress and the Sovereign's cases, if they couldn't find enough loyal ones, they just drug them up. Great.
A different sort of squelching sound erupted behind him. He swept his gaze over his shoulder to find the Heiress engaged in a different thing, altogether. In her immediate radius, pools of blood and twisted, lifeless forms lay on the simulated grass. His gut turned at the sight and the smell of rust wafting in the air. Xalim had been right. No one was supposed to get out of places like this. Death was the only freedom reserved for them. Did that mean the same thing for Rhys?
Silver whizzed towards him, and he turned too late. A blade pierced the air. Pain. A sharp clang. Embers colored the blue sky. He uncurled from the ground—a stance he had thrown himself into by instinct—and found a tall shadow looming over him. Dark hair fluttered like a curtain against her back.
Xalim flashed him a quick grin. "Nice to see you too," she said. "It's a feast, yes?"
A grin pulled Rhys' lips wide. "Never knew you can wield a blade," he pressed his back against her and summoned his sword from his stash. It's a weight he missed from his days of playing tame. "Foraging taught you that?"
"You learn some things on the job," came the girl's answer as she met another blade and Rhys lunged to tackle another. He swore he heard the words through a smug smirk. It might be why he liked her. She has spunk.
Rhys ducked under a swinging sword, bringing the pommel of his up, slamming it against a chin. A man crumpled to the ground, unconscious. He'd live—if he didn't fall to the Heiress' wrath first for failing to stop him. "Where's Bertha?" he called over his shoulder, flapping his wings to add momentum when he twirled in the air. Just an added flair to his combat technique, really. "Is she with you?"
Xalim grunted, falling back before slamming her heel into the gut of a Cardovian. It could be an initiate or someone in training because the black-clad girl stumbled to the ground, whining about being in pain. Rhys scoffed. Amateur.
