The captor growled, “If I hadn’t been there, you would have an arrow through your head.”

“But I don’t, do I?” the winged man replied, shouldering his canteen. He looked at Amaris and took a step. It wasn’t a move to invade her space but one to put himself closer to his companion. She noticed with a somewhat furrowed brow that the positioning was meant to make her more comfortable. The closer they were to one another, the less trapped between the two of them she’d be.

The captor narrowed his eyes at his companion. “Does she look like an innocent village girl to you?”

They truly regarded her, eyeing her tunic with the supportive leather around her midsection meant to offer extra protection against blades. They saw her riding leathers, the holster where her dagger was sheathed, and the large scar tearing at an angle down her cheek and a second sliding down below the line where her shirt cut off, allowing the imagination to discern how deep the old wound descended.

“Who is she, and what is she doing stocked to the hilt with weapons in the middle of the night?” he asked. The captor gestured to the hand that still held the dagger he’d stolen. She wondered why they didn’t ask her directly. It was rude, dismissive, and offensive. The longer they spoke, the more time she was granted for her fear to replace itself with anger. She didn’t understand this particular brand of insult, but the fae were acting like she wasn’t there. She could speak for herself.

Amaris burbled over with an infuriated question.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? I protect the people from creatures of the dark that mean to sneak in and destroy them.”

He smirked slightly, but it was barely one of amusement. His smile tugged as something else seemed to be flickering behind his eyes.

“Will you be doing any destroying tonight, Zaccai?”

“I hadn’t planned on it, General, but I suppose we can see where the night takes us.”

They were mocking her. He extended her stolen dagger back to her, hilt first. He was giving her the knife back? As he extended it to her, he paused, something akin to shock on his face. His body went rigid, peering at her—no, into her. She reached for the dagger, when the snap of a twig had them whirling. As he extended his hand, his expression changed.

“Wait,” he breathed, eyes wide.

The one who’d been called general lifted a hand. He was choosing to ignore whatever approached to ask a pressing question. It was as if he was considering her for the first time that night, soaking in every stitch of her features.

“Can you—?”

“Drop!” someone shouted from the woods.