WILLOW
Snow buffeted against Willow’s wards as he tried to catch a glimpse of his enemy in the swirling darkness of the blizzard. He was up on the fortress walls again. The only thing he could see, besides the fog of his own breath within his ward, were the lights in the village below.
He doubted any of his men were still alive. He could no longer hear their cries. The cold seeped into Will’s skin, the fire of his own rage insufficient to warm him. Was it midnight yet? Had the truce begun? Or were Vine soldiers descending on the village to punish the people he had rescued just days before?
No time to think. No time to look.
“This way, you spineless moth,” Willow muttered to himself as he backed up to the edge of the parapet. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing. The Mad Queen must be desperate if she’s sending you in right before the Binding Day truce to avoid retaliation. Don’t worry, though. I never forget.”
He dodged a blade that came out of nowhere, his opponent using the snow to conceal himself. Coward.
Will jumped back and his right leg wobbled. There was a long gash across his thigh from the bastard’s rapid strikes. Healing magic from Fern was already knitting it shut, but that was the least powerful of Willow’s five essences.
Enough of this. It’s late. I’m cold.
Summoning a burst of Obsidian power, Willow angled himself to have the village at his back, and let go of all the restraints Dwyn had taught him.