Page 15 of Crown of Serpents

No. Medusa would not yield — not to the wretched stab wound that made her eyes sting with salt nor to a pathetic mob of mortals. Her legs carried her faster and faster as she dodgedwhizzing arrows, adrenaline fuelling her body. She would not die today.

When Medusa reached the crossroads, she believed it. Down the street on the right was the city gate and the looming shadows of the forest beyond. That was where she needed to go if she wanted to live — deep into the darkest woods until her pursuers could not find her.

With a surge of energy, Medusa bolted to the gate. Fifty meters ... Forty ... safety was within reach.

But the hunters were relentless. Another arrow whizzed past, embedding itself in a wine barrel with a hollow thud. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her body wracked with pain and fatigue. Thirty meters left.

A second arrow whistled through the air, prompting her serpents to hiss a warning. A last-second dodge saved her, but she stumbled, nearly falling. The villagers were now close enough that she could smell their sweat, filth, and bloodlust.

Summoning the last reserves of her energy, Medusa lunged forward. When she was twenty meters from salvation, another arrow flew … and found its mark.

A cry tore from her throat as searing pain erupted in her thigh. The bronze tip had pierced clean through, the wooden shaft protruding obscenely. The world tilted, her leg threatening to collapse beneath her as the villagers erupted in a triumphant cheer.

The gate that had seemed so close only moments ago was now out of reach. Medusa attempted to take another step and cringed. Her leg buckled in protest as her muscle was set aflame.

“We’ve got you now, little gorgon,” a raspy voice taunted from behind.

Medusa limped another step.

She could hear the metallic rasp of a sword being drawn behind her, and she crumpled to the ground. It was over. These men had chased her through their village like a frightened little girl she had once been, and they would claim her life.

The familiar wave of panic washed over her, seizing control of her limbs. No. No. No. She could not lose control of her body. Not now.

Medusa fought against the grip of the dark current that threatened to pull her under.A desperate sob was stuck in her throat. She hated nothing more than the icy waves that rendered her helpless, her limbs too weak to fight the deadly current. She would not be weak. Not again.

Medusa whirled just in time when the man lunged for her, raising his sword … and froze mid-motion, petrified when his eyes met hers. For a moment, no one moved as the other villagers that had circled her exchanged panicked glances. In the frenzy of the chase, they had forgotten the monstrous power lurking beneath her human facade. In her own terror, she had forgotten it, too.

A slow smile spread across her lips as she prowled toward the mortals who had underestimated her. But before she could attack, her vision swam, and she faltered. Her skin turned clammy, her heartbeat a frantic flutter in her chest. She had lost too much blood.

“She’s weakened!” a bearded man declared with a gruff voice. “Charge men!”

As he lunged, she stumbled back, narrowly avoiding his rusty blade. He came again, dagger raised. She gritted her teeth and blocked his arm with all her remaining strength. A searing pain shot through her side, and her knees gave in. She fell into the mud, her head crashing against the ground. The stranger tumbled on top of her, knocking the air out of her lungs.

She was trapped beneath him. A wave of blinding panic washed over her, and she writhed beneath him. She had almost made her peace with the fact that she would die in this shitty town, but Medusa needed to get this man off her.

He brought his blade to her throat. “I will slit –”

Fatal mistake: his eyes met hers. His body turned to stone, pinning her beneath its unyielding weight.

With a grunt, Medusa crawled out from under the petrified corpse, shoving it aside until it shattered on the cobblestones.

There were ten villagers left, and they had circled her. With a defiant cry, Medusa pushed herself to her feet as they lunged. Two charged, while the others formed a wall between her and the gate, her only salvation.

One swung his sword in a clumsy arc. Clearly, he was no warrior. Medusa ducked, her leg a searing agony, and swept her foot out, sending him sprawling backwards. Their eyes met, and his face contorted in shock as the petrification took hold.

The other retreated, eyes wide with terror and nearly tripping over his feet.

Medusa faced the remaining men, their eyes fixed on the ground. Blood stained her tattered dress, her knees wobbled, but she forced herself to stand tall, her gaze unwavering. Her skin was cold and clammy from the blood loss. She had to convince them to let her go. More importantly, she had to resist the maddening urge to tear through the villagers until Cisthene was nothing but stone and debris. Never mind that she likely would not survive another attack in her current condition.

“As you can see,” she purred, suppressing the tremor in her voice, “I am still very much capable of butchering you. But my appetite for blood is sated for today. Let me pass, and you may live to see another sunrise.”

Anger clouded their faces. They yearned to avenge the fallen men, yet none dared to attack.

Medusa scraped a talon across the stony cheek of her last victim and pressed on, “It’s true you might overwhelm me in your numbers, but how many of you will join him before my throat is slit.”

Silence hung heavy in the air.

Medusa limped forward, suppressing a grimace of pain.

---