Wren had to get her out.
She edged toward the table, cursing as more elves filed into the room. They’d almost doubled in number. They were everywhere. Ceaseless, never-ending. Wren began to absorb the enormity of the situation she was in. It was grave. Likely, everyone she loved would not make it out of this situation alive.
Don’t think that way. You will get out with Britta. You have to.
Wren gritted her teeth and soldiered on, fighting her way to her little sister. She cursed as an elf caught her upper arm with his blade and she dropped her arrow. Rowen took out the solider as she curled her hand over the seeping wound and made her way toward Britta. Her little sister gaped at the carnage and Wren was struck by how small and quivering Britta was. She wasn’t even seven years old. Her wide green eyes were currently taking in horrors she should never have to see at such a young age. Tears coursed down her face as Wren and Rowen finally cleared a path to Britta. Wren threw herself beneath the table and scrambled beneath the tablecloth. Her little sister cried out and scuttled away.
“It’s okay, Britta,” Wren whispered. “It’s just your sissy. Don’t be afraid.”
Britta slapped her hands over her ears and began to rock. She was about to have an episode.
Wren set her bow down and wiped her bloody hands on her dress before she slowly scooted toward her sister. She held her hands out and smiled encouragingly.
“Come here, I have you.”
Carefully, she reached out and touched Britta’s scraped knee. Her sister flinched and stopped rocking.
“That’s it, little girl,” Wren crooned. “It’s just me.”
Britta’s bottom lip wobbled, and she threw herself into Wren’s arms. She clutched her sister to her chest and tried not to cry as Britta shook uncontrollably. “Hush, little one,” she murmured, urging Britta to turn her head against Wren’s chest and calm down—perhaps it would work this time. “It’s all right. We will get out of here. Just focus on your breathing.”
“We need to move,” Rowen grunted, his silhouette just visible from beneath the table.
He was right. They needed to move. Someone would soon discover them.
She lifted the tablecloth and scanned the ruinous throne room. It was absolute chaos. Rowen fought in front of them, keeping the soldier’s attention on him, not on who hid just behind him. In this moment, Wren had never been prouder of her to-be-husband. He grunted as an elf landed a blow against his side and she had to look away. Rowen was giving her this time to map a path of escape for them, not worry over him.
Her gaze latched onto a familiar head of hair. Anneke.
Her mum’s dark hair had fallen out of its jeweled net, flying wildly about her face as she slashed around her with her favorite double blades. A surge of pride went through Wren at the sight of her mother giving as good as she got; even now, with an adult daughter, the woman was still in the prime of her life. Wren had never, not once in all her nineteen years, thought of her mum as vulnerable. Even with her scars. Even with her gentle voice and calm nature. She was a force to be reckoned with.
Anneke dispatched her opponent and spun to meet her next attacker, but then an arrow lodged itself in her chest. Her mum’s mouth opened in a silent cry before a soldier kicked her to the ground. King Oswin faltered when his wife buckled to the stone floor, watching helplessly as she lay there, struggling to breathe, before he began to fight all the harder.
“Mu—” she began, then snapped her mouth shut as Britta began to lift her head. Wren pressed her sister’s face against her chest as she began to cry. Britta didn’t need to see her mother like that.
Get up.
An anguished bellow cut through the cacophony for a moment. Her father screamed and roared and took down every Verlantian soldier between himself and Anneke. But it was too late. The life drained from the queen’s eyes with every passing second, and between one blink and the next, she was gone entirely.
Wren clutched her sister to her and rocked back and forth, grief threatening to drown her. The sounds of the room dulled until all she could hear was her own heartbeat. They’d killed her mother. Her sweet, kind mum.
Avenge her.
She shook her head and cuddled her sister closer. Her mum’s sacrifice would be for nothing if Wren didn’t get Britta out. She had to keep them out of harm’s way until they could make their escape.
She locked her grief away. There wasn’t time to take in what had happened. Plus, her emotions would make her weak and slow. Wren needed to focus on protecting her sister from the enemy and from the heartache of what was taking place. The little one didn’t need such horrors in her mind.
Rowen took down his last opponent and glanced in her direction. He’d carved out a small window of escape for them. It was time to leave.
“We’re going to run, little one,” she murmured into Britta’s ear as she scooted out from beneath the table. “Keep your eyes closed.”
Her sister’s arms tightened around her. “Don’t leave me.”
“Never,” Wren said fiercely as she got to her feet, Britta in her arms. She hardly weighed anything. “Here we go.”
Rowen rushed forward and Wren shadowed him, hot on his heels. They weaved through the destruction toward the nearest corridor. The hair at the nape of her neck raised and she glanced to her left, locking gazes with her father. Time stilled as his dark brown eyes seemed to convey all his emotions.
Fear.
Rage.
Pain.
Guilt.
Love.
Love for her. Love for Britta.
The king opened his mouth as if intending to say goodbye, or to tell Wren to look after her sister, but the words he was about to utter became a choke in his throat when a sword erupted through his stomach. He dropped to his knees, and he smiled at her before he crumpled to the floor.
A scream lodged in her throat and tears rushed down her cheeks. Her steps slowed as she stared at her father’s body. This couldn’t be happening. Not both her mother and her father.
“Move faster, Wren,” Rowen commanded.
Her feet felt like they were stuck in mud. She couldn’t tear her gaze away.
Her to-be-husband’s hand circled her wrist and urged her forward. His fingers squeezed and he insistently pulled her forward. Maybe if she closed her eyes this would all be over. It had to be a nightmare.
“Sissy?” Britta whispered in her ear. “You’re crying.”
Wren snapped out of her daze, Britta’s shaking finally cutting through some of her pain. She swallowed down her sobs and clutched her sister harder to her body. She picked up her speed once again as they entered the smoky chapel that would afford them some cover.
She had to look after Britta. That was her main focus now.
Rowen released her wrist and attacked a solider that appeared from the gloom. The elf didn’t even have a chance. Wren didn’t even break stride.
A few moments felt like hours as they managed to cross the chapel unimpeded, a path cleared before them as Rowen cut down any threat. He flanked them with wild efficiency. Their escape loomed before them, and a thread of hope wrapped around her heart. They were going to get out. Wren followed her to-be-husband through the thick cloak of smoke and dust toward the exit. Her parents’ sacrifices would not be in vain. They could do this. She could do this.
A dark elf appeared on Wren’s left, lifting up his sword. Her mind stopped as he swung. This was how it ended. Like a fool she’d left her bow by the table. Wren covered Britta with her body. At such close quarters, she probably would not have been able to fire an arrow in the first place. She moved so that her sister was protected by her body and closed her eyes, surprisingly calm.
There were worse ways to die.
But the gleaming, wicked metal never hit her head.
Wren opened her eyes.
Rowen stood between her and the soldier, having taken the blow. She cried out at the mess of blood. He’d taken the sword squarely in the chest. There was no coming back from this.