The gallery smelled of smoke and sweat and something metallic—blood, probably. The mercs kept coming, a dark wave of leather and blades, but we’d closed in tight enough that their momentum broke on our line like waves on rock.
“Hold the rail!” Rowan barked, voice rough with pain. He planted his feet and used the rail as a brace, shoulder bleeding through mail, teeth gritted. Even wounded, he looked like a man made of stone—command carved into bone. “Kael, left side—push them away from the stair!”
“I’m on it!” I shoved through a press of bodies, blade knocking a merc’s wrist aside. He cursed, dark and short, and tried to come at me again. I parried, felt the shock travel to my elbow, and shoved him back with an old training that had nothing to do with courtly life. The man stumbled and Li
