The river had been merciless.
It spat them out onto the bank like discarded debris, leaving them gasping, soaked, and exhausted. Yara coughed violently, her lungs burning as she pushed herself upright, her arms shaking from the effort.
Mud clung to her, mixing with the blood from unseen scrapes. The roar of the current still echoed in her ears, but the cold reality of steel glinting in the torchlight pulled her back into the moment.
Swords. Five of them.
Dripping wet and exhausted, she barely had time to register the men surrounding them before Val moved.
A wall of muscle and fury, he placed himself between her and the threat, golden eyes burning like embers in the dark. His stance was rigid, every fibre of his body wound tight, ready to strike.
Rian, still on his knees, exhaled sharply and lifted his hands in mock surrender. But Yara knew better—his weight subtly shifted, his stance coiled, his sharp gaze scanning for weaknesses. An opening. A way out.
