Page 47 of Warrior Princess
A chuckle escaped Mykal. “While I don’t doubt her abilitiesoryours, caution never hurts. Please accept my aid.”
I sensed Ronan’s pride bristle at the suggestion, but before he could escalate the conversation into an argument, I cut in. “We'll take the extra help, Mykal. It's sensible. When can we leave?”
Mykal nodded, appreciating my easy acceptance. “After I organize a small escort, we can leave today. Give me a few hours to prepare everything.” With that, he stood and took his dishes to be washed.
Alone again, I turned to Ronan, who still seemed a bit miffed. “What’s really bothering you?”
He sighed and ran a hand through his black hair. “I guess I'm just irritated about the sleeping arrangements last night,” he admitted with a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Laughing softly, I shook my head. “Oh, come on. It was just one night. We have the rest of our lives to share a bed. Besides, right now, we need all the allies we can get.”
“You're right, as always,” Ronan conceded with a playful wink. He stood and gathered our dishes. “Let’s get ready to leave. After we rendezvous with the refugees, we’ll head straight for the border.”
My spirits were buoyed by the plan coming together. “Lead the way.”
21
Keldara’s landscape unfurled before us as we set out from camp on horseback. A stark expanse of rugged terrain marked by jagged cliffs and rolling hills seemed to stretch endlessly. The palpable tension ensured a quiet journey as our small party, consisting of Mykal, me and Ronan, and a handful of Keldaran soldiers navigated the rocky passes and sparse woodlands on our way towards the outskirts of the capital.
The crisp air carried the scent of pine and cold stone, a stark reminder of Keldara's unforgiving nature. As we traveled further from the safety of camp, signs of civil unrest became more apparent; among them were burnt-out remnants of what once might have been farmhouses, and occasionally the distant sounds of clashing steel echoed through the hills.
Ronan rode close by my side with his hand resting near the hilt of his sword, ready for any threat. I brushed against the small dagger at my waist, prepared to blood weave should the need arise.
Much of the day passed before we neared the refugee community, guided by Mykal’s confident navigation. Just as werounded a bend, a sudden rustling from the dense thicket to our right caught our attention. The sound was too deliberate to be wildlife.
“Get ready,” Mykal murmured, signaling for his soldiers to fan out.
No sooner had he spoken than a group of armed men emerged from the trees. Their armor bore Keldara’s crest, but these were no ordinary soldiers; their faces were marked with the fervor of loyalty to the old regime.
“They’re with the loyalists!” one of Keldara’s soldiers hissed under his breath.
Ronan pulled his sword free, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the number of our attackers. There were too many for a straightforward fight to end without significant bloodshed.
When the loyalists charged, I didn’t hesitate. I unsheathed my dagger and slit my wrist in one smooth move, letting my blood pool briefly in my palm before directing it upward into a swirling mass of crimson tendrils. With a practiced flick of my hand, the tendrils shot forward and struck our oncoming attackers with the precision of a trained archer. Each strike was calculated, meant to incapacitate rather than kill, but even then, the ferocity of my magic caused the loyalists to falter in their charge.
Tension pulsed in the air as the loyalists encircled us, their grim expressions leaving no doubt of their intentions. Ronan's grip on his sword tightened. His body was coiled like a spring, ready to launch at any moment. Keeping their sharp eyes trained on the advancing group, Mykal and his soldiers spread out and tracked every movement.
When the loyalists charged again, a brutal symphony of clashing metal rang out. Ronan was the first to meet their attack, his blade slicing through the air with lethal precision. He parried a thrust, then countered with a swift, arcing swing that sent oneattacker stumbling back, his armor clanging against the rocky ground.
I drew a deep breath and my blood responded to my call, swirling upwards in a mesmerizing dance of power. I thrust my hands forward and directed the blood into whip-like strands that snaked through the air with undulating grace. The tendrils lashed out, wrapping around weapons and yanking them from their owners' grasp or coiling around legs to pull the loyalists off balance.
One burly soldier broke through the line and barreled towards me with his sword raised. My heart raced as I quickly sidestepped and cracked my blood whip, tripping him before he could correct his aim. He hit the ground with a grunt and his sword clattered out of reach.
Meanwhile, Mykal engaged two attackers at once, his sword a blur of motion. He deflected a strike that came dangerously close to lopping off his head, then spun around and delivered a punishing blow that knocked the wind out of his zealous opponent. His soldiers followed his lead to disarm and not kill. While their disciplined strikes kept the loyalists at bay, they struggled to gain the upper hand.
Amid the clash, one loyalist managed to circle around and lunged at Ronan from behind. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye and my heart hammered. With a flick of my wrist, a blood tendril shot out and wrapped tightly around the soldier's arm, then yanked him backward. The sudden force pulled him off his feet, his cry of surprise lost in the noise of the battle.
Ronan spared me a quick nod of thanks before returning his attention to the fray, where his sword swiftly found its mark in the gaps of an enemy's armor. The loyalist faltered, blood seeping through the joints of his plate as he collapsed.
The fight dragged on with neither side yielding. The ground was littered with dropped weapons and the wounded. Each breath came heavier than the last, and my control over the blood magic strained as I continued to manipulate it in increasingly complex maneuvers.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the battlefield, the loyalists' resolve finally broke. The sight of their comrades falling under the relentless assault of blood magic and steel was too much. They finally retreated, dragging their injured with them and tossing wary glances behind their backs at us.
As the rest of us stood in the aftermath, panting and covered in dust and blood, Ronan and Mykal checked the perimeter to ensure there were no more loyalists crouched and preparing another attack. I leaned against my horse, my energy spent, and watched as the sunset touched the distant mountain peaks, a stark reminder of the brutal beauty of this land.
“We need to move.” Mykal’s voice was grim but relieved. “They will regroup and return with a vengeance.”
“Are you alright?” Ronan brushed a stray lock of hair from my face.
