Luna's Heir

2

Dexter, the completion to our infamous trio, merely shrugged nonchalantly. Her ebony hair was tied into a messy ponytail, several strands still hanging loose. The curly ends bobbed on and off her slim, tanned shoulders as she ambled on. “The way I see it,” she said, lifting a delicate brow as she studied her nails, “I just saved your ass—again. Blade’s ‘murderous calm’ was trained on you just now before I came along.”

Like us, Dexter wore tight-fitting Paladin-black combat suit and boots, but where Archer and I were donning the standard—and much more practical—tactical pants, she preferred her skinny and squeaky leather ones to show off her long, toned legs.

Archer seemed to be thinking the same thing as his gaze lingered on that part of her. I could have sworn Dexter noticed it too by the way her saunter intensified, if such a thing was even possible.

With the East Gate to the city at our backs, we faced the remaining fifty or so of the rogue force a few yards ahead of us. Other Paladin units were engaged in combat there already. Some of the city guard’s un-Gifted werewolves had joined the fight as well.

Though greater in numbers, the rogue packs were no match for the Palatians protecting their city—yet they fought with a skill and ferocity unmatched by any previous “disturbances.”

That was what Ysunra, the Captain of the City Guard, liked to call anything related to the barbaric Outsiders, as if they were mere inconveniences—and I had once been inclined to think the same, up until their attacks had started to become more frequent, organized, and brutal in the past few months.

Something was up. Rogue packs, which used to be small and scattered all across the continent, seemed to have gotten over their petty squabbles. They were banding together for the first time, and I was surprised to be the only one who found it somewhat disconcerting.

I pushed down the rising concern I knew was etching two deep vertical lines in between my brows as I said to my unit, “Let’s get in there.”

They flanked me on both sides as we set off charging anew into the second fray. The frigid wind sliced at my face as I tapped into my speed, forcing my limbs to get me there quicker.

Multiple arrows whirred past me from behind. As expected, every arrow found its mark a moment later. Other than being practically bulletproof, Archer never missed his targets. Ever. Three Outsiders with crossbows aimed at Dexter and me sagged to the ground in unison, black feathered arrow ends protruding from their hearts.

“You’re welcome!” Archer called out from behind.

Dexter spotted her next victim amongst the attacking rogues with a smile that promised pain, and so did I. With a quick swipe of my scimitar swords moving in concert, the Outsider werewolf’s spine severed before he could strike a final kill-blow to one of Ysunra’s guards, who nodded his relieved thanks to me.

Without having to search the chaotic battlefield for too long, I spotted Yron’s short, night-colored hair not thirty feet away from me. I’d made a promise to Ysunra a few weeks ago I’d keep an eye out for his talented but inexperienced son, whose duties had become more dangerous with the city guard when his nineteenth cycle began.

Sure enough, the young male was clearly having a difficult time with one of the more skilled Outsiders. Other guards and Paladins were closer to him, but none appeared to notice the predicament he was in.

Even as an un-Gifted werewolf, Yron had been trained by his father, Palatine City’s best instructor, but he was clearly tiring already—rapidly. Reckless desperation laced his every attack, parry, and block he threw with his golden broadsword, turning dangerously sloppy real fast against the other nimble broad-shouldered male who barely seemed to be breaking a sweat, wielding what looked like a Japanese sword with brutal efficiency.

Jumping into action, I cut down any rogue blocking my path. Yron was barely keeping his assailant at bay by the time I arrived. The Outsider, who was wearing a dark gray ski mask for some reason, pulled back his masterfully crafted carbon steel ninjato sword—I couldn’t help but notice with no small amount of admiration—and was about to plunge it into the young male’s chest.

I could have sworn he hesitated, only for a moment though, but it cost him.

His beautiful blade whistled as it cut air remorselessly one moment, but in the next, it was sent spinning away out of his considerable grip. A twang reverberated through the length of my one sword, my very bones resonating with the force of the impact.

His surprised gaze met my equally confounded stare. He was Gifted! Only werewolves living inside the city walls were Blessed, unless a Paladin warrior had somehow had a pup with an Outsider without the Prime Alpha’s knowledge. That alone was enough to get the male, and his family, executed.

Was that why he wore the ski mask, while none of the other rogues did?

From what I could glean from the two holes carved around his dark eyes, he looked to be at least middle-aged. He attempted to reach for his discarded ninjato, but he stilled the moment he felt one of my blades pressed to his exposed neck. His raised palms communicated forfeit—though exhilaration seemed to be glimmering in his eyes.

A gunshot pierced the night, making me halt. The sound of it ricocheted off the thousands of forest trees surrounding the clearing. An oppressive silence ensued right after, as if everyone there were still coming to terms with the echo weaving itself through the vast wilderness in every direction.