Torin didn’t glance behind to see what the bard did, although he did notice an arrow streak by, harmlessly hitting the cottage.

Satisfied that they had plundered what they wanted and set fire to everything, the Breccans retreated into the woods, melting into the darkness like cowards.

Torin coughed as he rounded the burning house. The air was thick, the smoke stinging his eyes. He gave half of his guard orders to begin hauling water from the nearby stream, to put the fire out. He motioned his remaining guard, the watchmen, to pursue the Breccans into the Aithwood, all the way to the clan line.

“Take prisoners if you can!” he shouted. He craved answers.

The trees of the forest grew thick, the air sweet and dark. Torin ran on foot, weaving around the trunks and kicking through patches of bracken. The clan line was close; he could feel it, humming in the earth.

Suddenly, he realized he was alone. None of his watchmen were with him.

He came to a stop, his eyes cutting through the night. It was quiet, but his breaths were ragged, his pulse thundering in his ears.

The Breccan seemed to come from the shadows, his boots making no sound on the loam. Torin saw him a moment too late, raising his sword to deflect a blow. The Breccan’s steel sliced his forearm. The pain was bright and merciless.

Torin fell to his knees, gasping. He felt the coldness seep into him—the sting of an enchanted blade. He parried another cut with his sword, driving the Breccan back. But then he was stung again in his shoulder, just beneath the protective drape of his plaid.

This pain was cool too, but sent a flare to Torin’s mind.

Run, escape, hide, run.

The orders permeated him. He staggered up to his feet, abandoned his sword, and ran, the fear rotten within him. Behind him someone spoke, an amused and cruel voice—“A fine captain you are”—and it only fueled Torin’s irrational desire to run, escape, hide.

He lost track of his direction, weaving deep into the woods. The forest eventually ended, spilling him out into a stark landscape. He could hear the roar of the coast nearby. The fog was rolling in from the ocean, cold and thick and hungry.

Torin ran into its embrace.

Jack sprinted through the Elliotts’ yard with a bucket of water. He had been useless with the bow and arrows, but this was something he could do. He dumped the water onto the house, which continued to roil with flames. Back and forth he ran, following a line of guards. From the stream to the yard, from the yard back to the stream, his skin grimy with sweat and flecked with ash.

The cottage continued to burn.