If they’re looking for us, they must have found the shaman already. Why waste time on two wyverns when there’s a Nuvali assassin on the loose?

Eyebrow Tattoos’s companions exchange a look, their hands flexing around their swords. They’ve never fought a shaman, I realize. Well, they’re in for a surprise, because they’re about to learn what it’s like to fight me.

Saengo sounds offended as she says, “We’re not deserters. I’m Saen—”

Eyebrow Tattoos charges me at the same time one of the others swings at Saengo.

I duck the swipe of his sword before delivering a kick to his side. My thigh stings at the impact, but the pain only helps to focus me. He groans and shuffles back, surprised. My teeth flash in a smile. His brows narrow, making his tattoos look like bizarre horns, and he comes at me again. Although I have nothing to defend with, I trust my feet and the speed of my own body to avoid the bite of his sword. My knuckles easily find his flesh, every blow building my frustration rather than alleviating it.

The relief I’d felt in the teahouse when I learned Kendara hadn’t yet named an apprentice is impossible to recover. I’ve more than enough standing in my way without these soldiers adding to my troubles.

My opponent grunts as I land a vicious kick to his ribs. It’s not the soldiers I’m furious with; they’re just unlucky enough to be here. My fist connects with a meaty gut, my elbow with his jaw, a flurry of attacks the opposite of the battle calm, all rage and fear and resentment.

If I don’t prove to Kendara that I still deserve a place with her, then I not only lose my future as Shadow, I also lose Kendara. I lose Saengo. I lose Evewyn, my home.

I sidestep his thrusting sword, clap my hands around his wrist, and twist his arm back. With a shout, he drops the sword. His other hand immediately seizes the dagger sheathed at his waist.

Locking his arm behind him, I press my thumb against his middle finger, bending it back against the knuckle until he cries out again.

“Drop the knife,” I demand with a quick glance at Saengo to see how she’s faring. She’s found a sizable branch and is deftly applying it to her attacker’s ribs. I don’t see the third soldier.

“You’re dead, shaman,” Eyebrow Tattoos growls. His lip is bleeding, and half his face has already begun to swell.

Part of me recognizes that I was unnecessarily brutal, but most of me doesn’t care. Not anymore.

“I’ll tear those disgusting eyes out! I’ll cut your—”

I bend his finger a bit farther. His threats dissolve into mindless shouts and curses.

“Drop it,” I say again. My voice somehow sounds calm. It’s a lie.