Page 35 of Cursed Shadows 4

Daxeel has no time to waste.

It was minutes ago he first spotted them, when he moved through the mist. Time is too short.

So he hunts the sparks, chases the crackle that—in the expanse of hollow, chilled air—ripples around the mountain.

Too loud, others will hunt it, more will be drawn from the battle beyond the mist. How many more, Daxeel can’t be sure. Most will chase it down to simply quench curiosity, or to hope that it’s Nari calling for help—and she’s as much as a target as he is, if not more.

Nari.

The thought of her twists his insides.

His teeth bare against the winds whipping him, the branches of the surrounding trees lashing him. But it’s the reminder of her, that he can’t feel her, that has his senses agitated.

A release of that agitation rises ahead.

A litalf scales boulders, where the trees are thin and willowy, bow and arrow strapped to her back. Sourcing the perfect vantage point.

Daxeel’s pace quickens.

He leans into the run, weapons holstered and belted, and he lets his natural weapons take hold, his nails sharpening, extending, into claws.

The litalf pauses. Her senses prickle.

Her head snaps to the side, her glaring gaze quick to land on Daxeel. But it’s too late for her—and she knows it. Her roundface pales for a mere heartbeat before Daxeel has lunged up the boulders, towards the downhill slope.

He swipes once, mid-air, then propels himself off the bouldered slope. He lands, hard. The heel of his boots cut into the cracked earth—the litalf’s throat in his grip.

He doesn’t hear her body hit the boulders, roll, then smack down onto the packed dirt ground. He’s already too far ahead, his punishing pace pounding through the mist.

The earth frosts beneath his boots.

The mist thins, but doesn’t disperse.

And Daxeel barrels out of the woods, the last of the trees before the earth becomes flatlands.

He falters.

Gaze sweeping the landscape, he searches the sprawling, never-ending vastness of a glacier, searches for the source of the signal.

He finds it.

A cluster of fae, beyond reach, too far ahead on the glacier to make out more than the colour of their leathers.

Daxeel homes in on the fae wrapped in black leathers.

Two of them, dotted so far in the distance that Daxeel can’t make out the features of their faces. He doesn’t need to. He recognises the yellow hair of the one closest to this barren shore of woodland and ice.

The other dokkalf, the one farther back, wears braided hair as red as fire.

But this isn’t a battle Daxeel has found.

The warriors out there, they don’t clash and bring down swords or tear off faces with their teeth. They are close together,too close for them not to be battling, a litalf between the two dark leathers, another litalf advancing on the trio ahead.

A frown tugs at Daxeel’s brow.

He homes in on the yellow-haired fae, the one of buttery gold and slow, cautious steps. But they all take slow, cautious steps…

His frown deepens. His gloved hands flex at his sides.

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