In a matter of seconds, the Morgaine has trapped me too high up to escape, even with Arthur’s strength in my legs.

The fox legion echoes in the distance—shrieks and clicks, then angry howls. As my attacker darts along the tree limb, they are illuminated by quick flashes of green and blue aether. The person is my height, drenched in a belted black leather tunic and tactical pants. Fingerless gloves reveal pale fingers. The Morgaine’s face and hair are hidden by the heavy drape of a black leather cowl as they survey the ground below.

Doesn’t matter. I don’t need to see my enemy to fight them.

As soon as they are within striking distance, I step into a jab, throw my weight into it—only for my right fist to be caught tight in their own, shot up at the last second without a glance in my direction.

Their hand engulfs mine in a confident grip with plenty of strength behind it, strength that could turn crushing—

I twist. Find balance. Kick at their knee—force them to release me.

They shift back—I surge forward.

A right hook to their ribs. They pivot away before it lands—too fast—grasp my forearm, use my momentum, pull me off balance. I stumble into them, nearly slipping off the branch. They hold my wrist tight.

Then, the Morgaine chuckles.

Chuckles.

They’re… laughing? At me?

An angry growl roars up from my gut to my chest—and my red root flares to life. Blooms bright at my elbow and rushes down my wrist until both our fists are engulfed in flames.

But only one of us gets burned.

My attacker yelps in pain, leaping back on the branch. They land deftly in a crouch, balanced on their heels, cradling one gloved hand against their chest and hissing lowly from the forest’s shadows.

The light of my root pools around me. At my fists, it pulses in time with my heartbeat, words made rhythm. I-won’t-run. I-won’t-run. I won’t-run. I know without seeing my reflection that my eyes have taken on the glowing crimson of my Bloodcraft.

Even my attacker’s eyes shine with the flames of my ancestors.

I raise my chin. “Who’s laughing now?”

Silence for one beat, two. Then, the low chuckle returns, followed by an amused, accented, young male voice. “Still me… my liege.”

The root around my hands flickers. My liege. My eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“So it’s true.” The stranger’s r rolls lightly. Scottish, maybe? “What they say about yer aether.”

“What do you know about my aether?” I snap. Abruptly, he raises his head to look at me. Warmth hits my cheeks in a wave. My root flares again. “Who are you?”

He holds up a defensive hand. “I’m—”

Thwip! A bright blue aether whip cracks in the air, snaking around my attacker’s ankle from below. He tenses. “Ach, shite.”