Victory wasn’t sure what woke her first—the last of the sun’s rays setting over the forest or Mikelos’ shout from outside their makeshift shelter. She scrambled to her feet after Asaron and ducked out from the tarp behind him in the dimming evening light.
Asaron drew his basket-hilted sword, the Schiavona he had wielded for hundreds of years, and took up position next to Mikelos. Her daywalker already braced himself with the pistol readied, though pointed at the ground. Victory heard another crash through the nearby underbrush. Mikelos glanced back at her and twitched his head toward where her sword leaned against a tree. She snagged it and drew the blade in time to hear a familiar shout.
“It’s just us!” her daughter called out. “Don’t shoot!”
Victory and Asaron lowered their swords and
