A Court of Wings and Fate

62. Bloodshed

Estelle had made good progress by the end of the third day. She camped in a small empty cave nestled into the jagged mountainside. The air grew steadily colder the higher up the mountain she went. There was more snow here than in the foothills. Parts of the stream she was following were frozen over completely.

Estelle huddled closer to her fire, hidden at the very back of the cave. She kept rubbing her thumb over the necklace Mikael had given her. With each passing day, her concern for him was growing. She had given up trying to push him into the back of her mind. Her worries voiced themselves and all she could do was not to let them distract her too much from the threats around her.

The shadows brushed across her cheek, offering what comfort they could. Even that small movement seemed to cause a lot of strain on them. Estelle sighed, leaning her head back against the wall.

"I'm supposed to be planning my mating ceremony and keeping my dad from killing Mikael," she grumbled. "Instead, I'm stuck on this Mother forsaken mountain."

Participating in the Blood Rite had always been her dream. Yet, now that she was here, she found that she couldn't wait for the Rite to be over. She stumbled across decaying bodies every day. She hadn't counted the amount of times she caught a glimpse of tanned skin and brown hair, and raced to the body just to make sure it wasn't Mikael.

Feet scuffled on the stone beyond the cave. Estelle glanced at the opening and hurriedly kicked ash over her fire, smothering it. That was a trick Mikael had taught her while they were on Aurora. She grabbed her spear and knives, waiting.

Perhaps it was just an animal. Perhaps it was another Illyrian looking for shelter. Maybe it was Ze'ev or one of his corpses. Estelle sniffed the air, but she couldn't scent whatever was lurking outside.

"We know you're in there, Shadowsinger," a male voice called. "Put your weapons down and you can leave alive."

"This is my camping spot. Find your own," Estelle hollered back. She tightened her hands around the staff of her spear.

Three Illyrians appeared in the mouth of the cave. "You had your chance," one of them said.

"We'll just have to remove you ourselves."

They rushed at her simultaneously. Estelle somersaulted between the legs of one, managing to hold onto her spear. She leaped to her feet and drove the point of the weapon in between his bound wings. With a sharp twist, his flesh ripped and the male screamed. Estelle twirled the spear behind her back, waiting for the others to attack.

One of them charged. Estelle dropped low and swept his legs with the staff. She flipped a knife into her free hand and plunged it into his stomach. She tore the blade through his guts and blood soaked his shirt. The male began to convulse, pressing his hands against his riven center, trying desperately to staunch the bleeding.

His other injured friend hurried to help him. "You rutting bitch!" The third male roared. He grabbed Estelle's wrist and wrenched it the wrong way. Her knife clattered to the ground. She swung her spear at his head. He blocked it with his forearm and jerked it out of her hand, before snapping it in half.

Estelle grunted as he slammed her into the cave wall. The ashwood chains dug into her wings and she cried out in pain. The man pinned her leg against the wall with one of his own. He held her wrists over her head and wrapped his free hand around her throat, squeezing tightly.

Estelle gasped for breath and squirmed in a futile attempt to free herself. The other male left his fallen friend's side. That male had ceased struggling and stared vacantly at the roof of the cave. He was dead. Blood still flowed from his stomach.