A sharp silence fell, broken only by the thrum of the arrow still quivering in the wood. Elara ducked instinctively, pulling Marta down with her. Kael slid upright, blade angled low, his eyes searching the dark fringe of trees beyond the well.
Elara’s heart hammered as she pressed herself against the cold, damp earth. Shadows crowded the clearing, moving with the restless breeze. She forced herself to keep breathing, shallow and quiet, as her mind raced. If the poisoner was desperate enough to shoot, none of us are safe.
There was a shuffling at her side—Marta, clutching the sack of herbs, whispering, “I didn’t see anyone. I swear.”
Kael made a quick gesture, urging silence. He crept forward, silent as a fox. The warrior disappeared around the well, his cloak melting into the gloom. Elara felt the absence keenly, the brittle courage in her chest threatening to splinter.
Another arrow thudded into the trunk of a nearby birch, close enough that bark sprayed her cheek. She flinched, pressing Marta’s head down. Elara squinted into the blackness—movement? A figure darting between trunks, then gone. Whoever it was, they were quick, and they knew the woods well.
Elara’s mind caught on a single burning fact: the poisoner must be someone from Thornhaven—or close enough to know every tree and shadow. She crawled forward, dragging Marta by the elbow. The healer was trembling, lips moving in a silent prayer or curse.
Kael reappeared on the other side, eyes dark with warning. “They’re circling us. Two, maybe three. Bowmen. We need cover.”
The words barely left his lips before another arrow hissed from the dark. It struck the ground between Elara’s knees. Her hands shook, but she forced herself up, grabbing Marta’s arm. “The old smithy—north wall’s half-collapsed. We can get inside.”
Kael nodded, already scanning for the best route. “Stay low. Move only when I say.”
A breathless moment passed. Then he rose, sword held protectively out, and darted into the open, drawing their attackers’ aim. Elara seized the chance. She and Marta scrambled after him, skirts snagging brambles.
They reached the edge of the trees just as another arrow bit into the ground behind them. Kael ducked behind a mossy boulder, waving them on. Elara’s lungs burned, but she did not stop until the rough stone wall of the ruined smithy rose before them.
Inside, the shadows were thick and the air pungent with the memory of old iron and smoke. Kael slammed the sagging door shut and shoved a beam across it. Marta collapsed against the wall, chest heaving. Elara looked back through a splintered window—shapes moved outside, silent, patient, and waiting.
A chill shuddered through her. Whoever the attackers were, they had not given up. They wanted Marta silenced. They wanted Elara gone. And Kael—his presence had just turned a small-town problem into a battle.
Kael crouched beside her, voice low. “We’re trapped for now. But they won’t risk fire. Not with the town so close.”
Elara nodded, mind whirling. If they waited, more would come. If they ran, they’d be easy targets. And in the center of it all: Marta, pale with fear, clutching her sack of herbs, eyes pleading for someone to believe her.
A ragged breath escaped Elara. She could feel the eyes of the poisoner on her through the darkness. Every secret she’d chased, every answer the town refused her, pressed close as a heartbeat.
Someone outside called, voice muffled by the door but sharp with triumph: “Give us Marta, and we let the rest of you go.”
Kael's jaw tightened. Elara stared at the trembling healer, at the flicker of torchlight passing over broken glass. There was no guarantee the threat was real—or that surrender would buy any of their freedom. The walls seemed to close in, breathing with the same fear that rattled her own bones. She had only moments to decide what to do next.
A heavy boot crunched just outside the door. The attackers were moving in.
Thunder rumbled on the horizon, promising rain—or something far worse.