Only minutes after their entry into the camp, a warning sounded out.
And then it was madness.
Guards began to spill from their tents and stations, swords in hand. Lysandra
nocked arrow after arrow into her bow, letting them go like a predator lying in the shadows, silent death catching her marks precisely in the throat or chest.
“Go now while you can,” she commanded Jonas as he fought off a guard, “and if you find Lord Aron before I do, kill him—and make it hurt.”
The promise of blood—of the vengeance he’d craved for so long—fueled him like nothing else. He slammed the guard in the throat with his forearm and the guard dropped to the ground, unconscious. “Good luck, Lys. If this goes badly, I’ll see you and Brion in the everafter.”
“You really think that’s where any of us are headed?
