“No!” she screamed.
Her to-be-husband shook off the blow as if it was nothing and lurched forward, making quick work of the surprised solider who had sought to dispatch her. Rowen’s lips curled into an animalistic snarl as he wrapped an arm over his wound and pushed her forward until the three of them reached the exit.
Rowen stumbled and fell to his knees.
Her legs gave out and Wren collapsed to the floor, letting go of Britta so she could place her hands on her to-be-husband’s chest to inspect the damage the Verlantian soldier’s sword had done. The blade had just missed Rowen’s heart, but he’d lost too much blood. Too much damage had been done to his insides.
Her hands shook as they hovered over his wound. “You’re going to be fine,” she said, tears dripping down her cheeks. “Just a little bit farther. Can you stand?”
He grabbed her right hand and placed it against his cheek. “My love, you need to leave me.”
Wren shook her head. “No, we can do this.”
“Wren.”
“Don’t use that tone with me,” she snapped, her bottom lip quivering. “You’re not going to die.”
He huffed out a wet laugh and then wheezed. “Always so stubborn. Look at me.”
She lifted her gaze from his wound to his dear face.
“Go,” Rowen heaved, eyes dangerously glassy as his fingers fumbled to find Wren’s left hand. She squeezed his fingers far too tightly; her beautiful soulmate, with his dark hair and swimmer’s soul and caramel eyes, had been reduced to a brutal, bloody mess. It wasn’t right. None of this was right. “Take Britta and—and go.”
Wren shook her head miserably. “I cannot leave you. Britta and I—we can carry you. We can—”
“Go.”
“Rowen—”
“Blast it, woman, do you want our last words to each other to be our first argument as husband and wife?” he cut in, his dark humor not leaving him even in his final moments. She cried harder, vaguely aware of her sister clinging to her. It only made Wren cry more.
“Almost husband,” she hiccupped, trying to joke.
Rowen turned his face and kissed the palm of her right hand. “It may not be legal, but you are the wife of my heart. I will always love you, Wren.”
Britta began to cry, the sound crescendoing into a wail. Rowen turned his attention to the little girl and gave her a warm smile.
“It’s alright, little sister. I’ll see you soon.”
Wren sobbed as Britta released her and hugged Rowen. The man’s glassy eyes softened, and he squeezed Wren’s hand with all the strength he could muster—which wasn’t much at all. “I thought I smelled too yucky for hugs, Britta.”
Her sister sniffed. “You still smell like fish.”
He chuckled which ended up in a pained cough. “It’s in my blood I suspect.” Wren pulled away as he pressed a kiss to the top of Britta’s head. “I need you to be brave, little one, and you need to mind your sister. Can you do that?”
Britta nodded and pulled back; her dress now soaked with blood.
“Good. You be a good little dragon.”
Britta pushed back and pressed her face against Wren’s side. Wren didn’t know how to move on. Her future was dying right in front of her.
“I don’t know how to leave,” she rasped.
Rowen gave her a soft smile, his pupils blown too wide. “You get up and walk away.”
“I don’t have the strength.”
“You’re the strongest person I know. That’s why I love you. Now leave me. Save your sister and yourself.”
“This is not goodbye,” she insisted, desperate to believe her own empty words. “It isn’t. I love you. We shall see each other again, and soon.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Rowen said, clearly lying. He coughed, and it was full of blood, and Wren’s resolve faltered. “Go,” he muttered again. He let go of Wren’s hand.
She hauled Britta back into her arms and she forced herself to her feet though her legs shook. “I’ll be back,” she murmured.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Wren blew him a kiss and then turned on her heel, fleeing down the darkening corridor with Britta in her arms. Every step she took seemed to carve another piece of her heart away.
“I’m sorry, sissy,” Britta sniffed.
Wren licked her lips and pressed a kiss to the top of her little sister’s head. “So am I.”
Tonight, she’d lost the love of her life and her parents.
But she’d not lost everything.
She hugged Britta closer to her chest.
She still had her sister.
6
Wren
There was no time to comprehend what she had just lost. All Wren knew was that she and Britta had to run, run, run. Away from the noise and the danger. Away from the swords and the steel and the blood.
Away from their parents.
Away from Rowen.
“We can’t leave them,” Britta cried as they fled the chapel. “We can’t leave Mum and Papa and Rowen. If we don’t save them, they—”
“We have to get you out,” Wren cut in, not meaning to be so harsh with her little sister but finding it impossible to be gentle. Her grief hurt so much. “If we stay, we’ll die.”
“That isn’t true! We can fight—”
Wren clamped her sister’s mouth shut, half to stop her words from filling her ears and half to silence their escape across the courtyard. They had to remain as quiet as possible to re-enter the castle unseen and unheard. The hidden underground passages were their only hope of escaping with their lives. Hopefully, all of them hadn’t been breached by the enemy.
She pulled in a deep breath before crossing the courtyard. The elves were everywhere. Tense and frightened, Wren kept to the shadows, her heart galloping as the sounds of fighting filled her ears. The storm whipped her torn dress against her bare legs, and Wren squinted as Britta’s loose hair flew into her face.
The skies broke open once more and she shivered as heavy rain drops fell from the darkened sky. She grimaced as her feet slipped in mud and Britta’s arms tightened around her neck. Wren paused next to the servant’s entrance and kicked off her shoes. She wouldn’t leave a trail for anyone to follow. Her sister shivered and began to cry softly against Wren’s shoulder. She kissed Britta’s now-sodden blond head.
“Be brave just for a little while longer,” she whispered to her sister before checking inside the entrance. The lanterns were dark, and no one was about.
Now or never.
Wren rushed through the room and down the corridor, sprinting toward the kitchen. They were almost there. Behind them, a banging noise from the courtyard alerted them to the presence of more Verlantian soldiers closing in. Wren ruthlessly shoved down the panic that threatened to drown her. There was no time to waste: a secret entrance to the underground passages through the larder was their best bet for escape.
Get to the larder. Get to the larder. Get to the larder. One more step and then you’re there. Just one more, and one more.
It was a bloody miracle that they reached the larder without Britta slipping into one of her fits, or Wren losing her composure. She closed the door behind them and edged through the room. It was well-stocked and heaving with the produce of summer. Her pulse ratcheted up a notch as a series of curses echoed in a nearby corridor.
It was only a matter of time before they would be spotted if Wren didn’t move faster.
With strength she didn’t possess, she hauled her sister closer and ran to the end of the larder.
“I have to put you down, little dragon,” she whispered to Britta. With shaking hands, she put her sister down for just a moment, breathing heavily as she struggled to lower a wooden shelving unit to the floor, pears and apples tumbled across the floor. She winced at the noise and wasted no time in rushing behind the hidden door the shelf revealed.
“Are we going to hide?” Britta asked, watching Wren close the door behind them and barricade it shut with the curious innocence that only a six-year-old could have in the face of danger.
Wren knelt in front of her sister, so their eyes were level with one another and held her sister’s tiny hands in her own. “No,” she said. “We are not hiding, Britta. We are going to run away.”