"The fact that you can look at him and not snap his neck is bewildering to me."

My words are followed by the crunch of an apple, the snap of a twig, and finally, the exasperation of Bren's sigh. We've been through this, over and over again, but it never seems to settle. Our one difference, well, one of many now that I think about it, is our care towards Alaric. The commander that has never once put himself on the line when it matters.

How they found each other, I don't want to ask. It's not any of my business, but I know it all happened after Arego was ruined and I was kidnapped with the rest of my family and taken to the capital. I remember sitting in that prison wagon and staring out the barred window. Celestine was at my side then, my parents, too. How had I taken advantage of that? Why didn't I fight harder?

Still, there's that lingering question inside my mind and it holds the possibility that Bren was part of this long before Arego's destruction. It's possible he sought the rebellion hoping to protect me, Celestine, and everyone he cared about in that village. It's possible Alaric knew who I was all along, watched from the shadows while weaving together his web of immortal powers to take down the king.

What they're fighting is similar patterns of technique. The king wants immortal powers. Alaric wants them, too. What they're failing to realize is that the average witch does not hold an immortal strength. Only the lucky are gifted powers of ground, storm, illusion, fire, water—everything that makes us superior. The majority of our kind is mortal and weak by both leaders' standards.

They're in an endless tugging war and the king is fighting a blind man. Literally and figuratively.

"Can you not talk like that?" Bren retorts. I toss the apple core into a berry bush past Renit, and he hardly notices other than a slight glance in my direction. "The last thing you need is to start behaving like you're a cold-blooded killer."

"Rage unsettles the mind, for one is not kind," Renit speaks for me. He doesn't tear his stare away from where it's locked straight ahead, peering at the woods before us.

We're heading in a similar direction as we took to Lona, but we'll cross the river shortly and head the rest of the way west towards Ducoria. I'm not prepared to see the uncomfortable darkness of the city, the stares through lowered brows and faces hidden behind the dark hoods of cloaks. No one wants us there, they're trying to live their lives without the king's, or anyone else's recognition.

They might very well kill us for stepping anywhere near their city and asking for handouts, soldiers willing to risk their lives for a better future. They know Renit's blood, and mine as well, and both of us have aided the king when he needed help the most. Renit for three hundred years, me for two months. Time holds no weight. If we stood at the king's side, did his bidding and polished his crown, we're just as bad as him.

Bren speeds his steps to stand at my side, coming from behind and his need to patrol the area without actually looking behind him. "Spoken like a true member of the elderly," he mocks, craning his neck around me to view Renit.

Still, the witch of storm doesn't falter. I expect him to; I expect to pull him off of Bren's huddled and terrified body after he starts throwing punches, but Renit's demeanor hardly shifts. His stony expression doesn't change.

"He's saying that just because I'm pissed at Alaric. It doesn't mean I want to kill everyone," I explain.

Renit's acknowledgment of my knowledge is a grunt. Another one of Darlene's books then. Something he has read, too.

"Still, you mustn't parade around, threatening everyone you know. It's important to make allies, just as it is important to watch your enemies."

Not from a book I know and not something I necessarily care to hear. I oblige him anyway, turning my gaze to his as we walk through a thick pile of brush. He extends his hand out towards me, helping me along, and I bat it away. Renit doesn't offer for he knows I can get through without trouble and Bren is offering, not to help, but to upstage the banished prince.

"Are you speaking from personal experience?" I ask, picking a twig from where it's lodged into my cuirass. I've grown tired of wearing such a hard piece of armor but Renit will not allow anything else. The metal vambraces over my forearms, made from the strongest of steel, are nearly worthless unless they can block the force of a blade. They can't. My armor, along with theirs, is merely weight.

"Technically, yes." Bren's dark brows, a different and more refined shade of his orange, shaggy hair, raise when I challenge him with a single stare. "But—"

"Then you're a hypocrite," I interrupt. He opens his mouth to retort, but clamps it shut. "If you can be pissed, then why can't I?"

Again, he stutters over what should be said, what crosses the line, and what dignifies him a kick between the legs. I place my hands on my hips, shift my weight to one, and stare into his blue eyes that remind me of the ocean waters. I haven't studied Bren in months, and definitely not in the weeks we've been around each other again. He's older, more mature, and I can't quite place it, but something is entirely different about the boy he once was.

Calling him a man, even though he's of age, still doesn't sound right on my tongue. Stemming from experiences we've had, both of us, it's fair to say he's grown more than he should've, and I fell into the same trap. As we stare each other down, Bren not backing off other than to scratch at the back of his neck, I wonder if he sees the same in my appearance that I do with him.

"You know, I'm beginning to understand why he calls you spitfire. It makes sense, considering you're snippy," Bren mocks.

Like he did when we still lived in Arego, peacefully, he reaches up to flick the bottom of my nose with the side of his finger. Back then, I was never able to detect it and always failed to stop it before it happened. Not only have I aged, been through too many experiences to still consider myself sane, but I'm quicker. I grab his hand, inches away from my nose, and squeeze hard enough to thrust it back in his direction.

Bren doesn't look disappointed for a second. Pride is what I catch in his eyes.

Renit hasn't bothered to wait for us. His figure moves swiftly through the trees like he can't waste another second on me bickering with someone of our company, and I push past Bren to go after him. Swinging himself around the trunk of a tree, Bren moves before me, a smirk plastered onto his face. I haven't seen anything so carefree on his face in so long; it's refreshing to have a semblance of him back.

"You're just lucky I—"

"Roux, look out!" Bren shouts over my voice, drowning out what I have to say next.

He runs for me, attempting to block what is coming for my left, and out the corner of my eye, I spot movement. At the last second, as the arrow flies, I throw up my arm. The tip of the arrow slams into my vambrace, skidding off the top, and barely cuts through to snag onto my flesh. Bren, realizing I'm uninjured, is already running at our target, Renit doing the same.

Weapons are drawn and I look down, only for a second, to see the scratch of the steel cut clean through and the smallest trickle of blood down my left arm. I attempt to access my power and find it's still there untouched and unweakened. The arrows weren't tipped with titanium, then. Good.

I draw twin daggers of my own and rush at our fleeing targets through the woods. I've done this before, felt the cuts of branches against my cheeks, the sting of my ankles as they're rolled over rocks, the bite of my breath as I attempt to keep up with what is before me.

If I hadn't raised my arms, I would've died. The arrow sinking directly into my skull. And I—

All the air is knocked from my lungs when something, a living being, slams into my left side and tackles me to the ground. I skid, their arms still wrapped around me and fumbling with a weapon, and slam into the trunk of a tree. That's the only time I give them; I don't care who is at the other end of my body and thrust my dagger into their back. Luckily, through the force of the hit, I kept my grip tight on the two weapons.

The man holding on lets out a sharp yelp and shoves back, striking my jaw in the process. I taste my own blood, warm and sharp like iron, and brace my hand against the trunk to hoist myself up. Looking in Renit's direction, I don't think either of them are aware of another attacker, and possibly more, in these woods.

He stands on shaken knees, attempting to clutch onto the wound in his shoulder. Both daggers are still in my hands, one leaking with blood, and I spit my own onto the dirt before me. It dribbles down my chin, and through blood-stained teeth, I grin. Months ago—half a year ago—if this were to happen, I wouldn't know what to do. I've changed since then.

I shift myself into a fighting stance, making myself light on my toes, and crouch my knees. He may be down on one shoulder, but that doesn't mean he can't fight.

"Your king has a very special message for you," he purrs.

"Does he?" I pant. "You tackled me just to provide gossip?"

He doesn't attempt to attack me, doesn't desire rushing at me to deliver a stab wound of his own or snap my neck between two palms and a strong twist. He stands there, chin lowered, shoulders taut, arms flexed and hands clutched into fists.

Renit and Bren are still pursuing the other attackers, and I figure this is exactly what they hoped for. To draw us away from each other. They never meant to kill me.

I've worried about facing the king; killing him; being the last in the courtyard to take him on. But I've never quite faced the dread I do now as I realize the king isn't out for our heads anymore. He's playing games. Dangerous games.

"Your king wishes for you to know that we're watching you. We have eyes everywhere." His tone is monotone and ghost-like. These words—they're directly from the king himself. Spoken no differently than when he relayed this message. "Even within your little rebellion. We know what you have planned, we know where you're going, and we're one step ahead. Watch your backs and remind your lover where he stands. A banished prince. No home, no purpose, no use in this world. Don't think—"

I've heard enough. Through the ways of my power acting on my behalf, the ground in the shape of a spear shoots up from the floor of the woods and spikes directly into his abdomen. His voice is cut off, his breath sharpening, and he slows his movements upon realizing he's no longer standing on his own. Leather boots hover just inches away from the ground, but he doesn't reconnect with the surface.

Blood pours from his lips and in the matter of a second. Quicker than I can walk over and snap his neck to end his suffering, he's dead. There's nothing I could've done for him; we can't exert Renit's ability more than it's necessary. The last thing we need is weakened forces in that department.

I leave his body where it is and trudge after Renit and Bren. The sounds of battle are beginning to deafen and Renit's power, his rain, is calling towards me. I follow the tug of the Grounding bond, along with the obvious smell of smoke, and brace my hands against the trees. My legs are still shaking, my hands the same.

What could he have meant by being one step ahead? Does he know we're going to Ducoria? Are there infiltrators in the rebellion? The first name that pops into my head is Alaric, then I remember he's done nothing wrong other than piss me off. He's clean, it has to be someone else. Someone that can stand to lose something, a face I wouldn't recognize in a crowd. It has to be.

No, I'm overthinking this. If the king is willing to play games, then it's possible he's saying this to stir us and make us believe there is an enemy within our ranks. If we start passing blame, it'll weaken the strength we already have. Some might argue, they might die, they might forget what side of the alliance they're on and go after each other. A weak group of many mortal witches cannot risk that chance.

Just as I break onto the trail occupied by weeds and brush, Renit and Bren are diminishing their powers. Before them, lying in heaps of billowing smoke and twitching nerves, are five of the king's men wearing that malicious red and black armor. Not the normal gold and silver the kingdom is built on, but a darker, bloodier day.

Renit takes a double take at me, furrowing his brows when I spit more blood onto the dirt. "You were right behind us," he says, turning fully to face me. "That means..."

"One of them was a witch of illusion," I finish for him. He walks over, carefully pressing his fingers against my cheek over the already forming bruise. I wince, batting his hand away, and turn my attention back to the guard. "Gather weapons, armor, anything else they left behind. The armor may be useful someday if we have to pose as one of the king's men."

I'm already moving to do that, but neither of my company is. "Who attacked you?" Renit demands.

I kneel next to a still-steaming body and begin unbuckling the leather chest-plate. "Another of the king's men. He had a special message from the king himself."

It takes one of my well-pointed stares, authoritative enough for them to comply, for them to start picking through what armor and weapons we can take with us. I believe that to be the only thing until twigs snap and brush is tugged from the ground. These men didn't just bring themselves, they brought horses, too. There were six guards in total. They came on three horses.

The king is holding back on his forces, apparently.

Bren, already walking over to the unsuspecting horses on the side of the trail, asks over his shoulder, "What did he have to say? Or did you kill him before he got the chance to speak?"

"Something about being one step ahead of us and infiltrators to our rebellion. Spies, whatever. Nothing important." I thumb free a dagger, studying the golden handle, and keep it for myself in case we need to trade it for coins. We will, considering we have little to no money to spend.

"That's it?" Renit's question is accompanied by the moaning of leather when he slings it over his shoulder.

I spit more blood onto the dirt and he winces when I look up at him. The guilt is visible in his eyes; he knows he should've been there to help me against that guard. I had the situation under control, but we mustn't separate when the king desires to have what doesn't belong to him. He'll take his son back in the single beat of a heart, and if he does get his hands on Renit, there may be nothing I can do about it.

We must be more careful.

"I killed him before he said anything else," I mumble.

Renit snorts. "May I remind you of your earlier conversation?" He's already dragging one body to the side of the trail and begins to do the same for another. They're stripped down to their underclothes and we've gathered as much armor and weapons as we can carry on the backs of three horses.

I won't remember their faces. They're nothing to me, and I can't bring myself to feel sorry about it. Since the king's control, something has altered the way I think about this. Sometimes, it must be done. If the king's men are here to kill me, or someone I care about, I must do whatever it takes to slit their throats first. Or impale them with my power. Whatever works.

On the night Arego was ambushed, I was prepared to end Silas's life. If that was all it would take to save us, the village, and Renit, I'd live with the guilt for the rest of my life. Renit wouldn't carry that burden over his head, and he hadn't tried to stop me. After three hundred years, they'll never come close to doing that to each other so it's up to me to do it when no one else will.

This is no different. We killed these men, for if we didn't, they might've killed us. Even if their orders weren't to end our lives, it could have quickly come to that.

Once I'm standing, steadier this time around and holding armor and weapons in my grasp, Renit comes over to me again and gently takes my chin in his hand. His fingers cup along my jaw, tilting my eyes to his, and he searches over my face for the life he thought to be behind him the entire time.

"I'm fine," I promise. "I'm breathing, and my heart is beating."

He sighs, his mouth quirking to the side in disappointment. "You weren't there," he mutters, his hand falling. For a second, I consider catching it. "He could've taken you again."

I stand on my toes and kiss him softly. It's not the comfort he's looking for, but it'll help. Although it hurts my jaw; my teeth are throbbing and my cheek is burning, I do it anyway. When my eyes open again, Renit's attention lingers on the bruise blossoming on my cheek. "That's not what I have planned for us." I pat my hand against his chest. "Neither of us end up in his capture, all right?"

Renit nods. I brush back a strand of dark hair that falls onto his forehead. "I promised you I'd never let him near you again."

Thinking back to that pledge he made in my old home in Arego, I smile. I remember the words perfectly, how he was so certain to ensure nothing ever happened to me again. Nodding, I press my palm to his chest, directly over his beating heart. The nuummite necklace hangs underneath his armor.

"You've kept that promise," I reassure him. "The king isn't here and we're all still alive. Everything's fine."

It takes convincing, him checking me over once more to ensure no titanium is in my system from the arrow wound, before Renit finally comes to the terms with the situation. At that point, Bren is annoyed and filled with impatience to the point he's already sitting in the saddle of one of the king's horses. I've never been happier to see the beasts of travel in my company.

Renit and I ride close together and after a bout of silence, his hand reaches over and squeezes onto my knee. He's reminding himself that I'm still here, I'm not an illusion, and the king's men, or the source himself, are nowhere near.

It's just us from now until the end of time.