Once saddled, Xephyra seemed to act upon some ancient, ingrained instincts—or perhaps she’d seen the other phoenixes do it—tucking her legs underneath her body and lowering herself to the ground. Tristan mounted up, while Rex watched in mournful silence. Veronyka handed him her bow and arrows, which he slung over his back before hoisting her up in front of him.
“You’ll have to steer,” he murmured into her ear. They were squeezed tightly together on a saddle that was only made for one, and the touch of his breath on her skin sent goose bumps trailing down her back. He quickly showed her where to put her feet and where to hold on, but she was flustered by the way his chest and thighs pressed against her. Luckily, most of her guidance would come to Xephyra through the bond. “She won’t be able to hold us both for long, but if we can get there, we can try to shore up the defenses while Xephyra distracts them with her fire.”
“Will you be okay?” Veronyka asked as Xephyra stood from her crouch and shook out her wings. Xephyra’s wasn’t the only fire they were about to endure—every bit of the village gate was burning. They were flying an inferno into an inferno.
“I’ll have to be.”
Xephyra leapt into the air, and one flap of her wings was enough to almost unseat Veronyka. She clung to the front of the saddle, using the stirrups as Tristan taught her, while he squeezed hard around her midsection.
Several more pumps of Xephyra’s wings, and they were soaring above the temple and back into the fray.
The world shrank beneath them, while the sky became a vast, black expanse that threatened to swallow them whole. The night was alive with the cold bite of wind and the gentle kiss of starlight.
Veronyka gasped; it was like being mirrored with Xephyra again, only far more visceral. Her heart pounded, her stomached clenched, and every inch of her body tingled. She had been dreaming of this day since she was a child, but never had she imagined that her first flight on phoenix-back would come amid a fiery battle for her life.
Xephyra flew above the phoenixes swooping back and forth in the sky, the sounds of the battle below almost lost in the whistle of the wind and the pump of her wings.
As they neared the wreckage of the village gate, Veronyka’s bondmate grew hot beneath them. Tristan squirmed slightly against her, sweat sticking them together, and Veronyka knew he wouldn’t last long on Xephyra’s smoldering back.
The gate was already worse than Veronyka had seen it just a few moments ago. A blackened frame was all that remained of the double doors, and only a handful of guards still defended the opening, while soldiers tried to scrabble over barrels and debris.
Tristan asked Veronyka to have Xephyra steady her flight, and then a soft twang slipped past her face. An arrow flew down to pierce the heart of a soldier as he tried to make a path through the rubble.
Tristan was able to loose two more before the soldiers found the source of the attack and turned their bows skyward. Veronyka didn’t need Tristan’s prompt to tell Xephyra to fly higher, out of their range.
They were a good distraction, drawing the attention of the soldiers so that the remaining defenders could regroup. When the attackers did the same, drawing back to the far side of the field, Veronyka hoped they were considering a retreat.
But as Xephyra swooped by for another pass, a swell of reinforcements spilled onto the mountainside, like a rush of ants from a kicked colony. Veronyka’s insides became a yawning void of despair.
“Axura save us,” Tristan whispered.
Veronyka directed Xephyra toward the village. She dipped low over the rising tide of soldiers, causing them to duck and scatter, before landing in front of the ruined gate. They didn’t have long before the attackers would gather for a renewed assault.
Tristan leapt from Xephyra’s back, and Veronyka slipped down after him. She patted her bondmate gratefully but didn’t bother with instructions—Xephyra knew what to do. It seemed that, in battle, their connection honed and sharpened like the powerful weapon that it was.
Tristan made to hand Veronyka the bow and quiver again, but she shook her head. He was the trained archer, not her.
As the last defenders emerged from the shadows, reloading their weapons and taking up new positions, Veronyka went in search of arrows. Captain Flynn was slumped against a wagon wheel, pressing a blood-soaked wad of fabric against a wound, and many more bodies—dead or alive, Veronyka didn’t know—were scattered all around them. She avoided looking at faces or wounds and focused on plucking ammunition from the ground and the surrounding wreckage. Grass, buildings, and bodies burned, sending plumes of smoke billowing into the air, tightening Veronyka’s throat and making her eyes water.
With a heavy heart she came to stand next to Tristan, sliding the additional arrows into his quiver. She supposed that dying on her feet fighting wasn’t the worst way to go. She’d finally been a Rider, for however brief a time, and it was a comfort to know that Xephyra would either escape or die free—both better options than being executed inside a cage. Maybe Val had gotten away through the underground tunnels she spoke of and would become a Rider on her own. Veronyka thought about trying to contact her with shadow magic, but she didn’t know where to begin . . . or how to say goodbye.
Xephyra let out a bloodcurdling cry of defiance and ripped a path through the soldiers. Veronyka and the last dregs of their defenses raised their weapons and faced the chaos the phoenix left in her wake.
The village walls hadn’t been built with proper defense in mind, so there were few positions that gave Tristan and the others a good angle from which to hit the attackers. Looking around, Veronyka spotted the ruins of a cart and wrenched up a massive board of wood.
She carried it toward Tristan, showing him he could use it for protection. It wasn’t large enough to shield his whole body, but with Veronyka holding it, she could adjust the height or slant, giving him the cover he needed to get off cleaner shots.
It jarred her arm muscles right to their joints when the first arrow slammed into the slab of wood, and the point of the steel-tipped arrowhead protruded through from the other side.
Tristan’s expression was wide, frantic, before relief washed over him when he saw the arrow hadn’t made it completely through. They shared a glance, and Veronyka nodded—she could do this.
He loosed more arrows, and Veronyka caught more attacking shots in return.
Though her limbs shook with effort and her ears rang from impact after impact, Veronyka found herself settling into a rhythm. They were like one person, anticipating each other’s every thought and movement.
Tristan would spot a target, Veronyka would move into place to shield him, and he’d loose his arrow.
Target. Shield. Loose.
Target. Shield. Loose.