Yellow sputum dripped from its snarling maw. Its quicksilver eyes flared at the pair as its claws tested the earth beneath its feet.

“What in the Gods’ names is that?” Lina hissed, her fingers squeezing tighter around her axe as she and Bri slowly stepped backward.

“No clue,” Bri panted, reaching for Lina’s hip and unsheathing the amethyst dagger with her free hand. She held the two blades—one silver and purple, one golden and bronze—out toward the creature and it retreated a step. “What the . . .”

She held up just the amber dagger and the beast took another snarling step. She lifted the amethyst dagger and it retreated again.

“Whoever created this beast,” Lina breathed. “I’m guessing is the owner of this dagger.”

Baffled, Bri looked from the purple hilt back to the glowing pewter slits of the creature’s eerie eyes. “Sit,” she commanded, but the lion didn’t move.

“It’s not a fucking dog,” Lina gritted out.

“It was worth a try.” Bri lifted the dagger higher in the air and took another step forward.

The lion lowered into a crouch, its ears plastering back as it looked to the ground.

Carys came barreling through the woods on foot, skidding to a halt when she spotted Bri approaching the lion. A handful of guards stumbled up behind her and she held up a hand to stop them from advancing.

The creature’s giant claws dragged rivulets into the soft earth. Its ears perked up, twisting toward the west just as a murmured chant echoed from the same direction.

People were coming.

The voices grew as a violent thread of magic shook the earth and whipped through the trees.

“Run!” Carys screamed and they all turned and bolted.

The beast chased after them, snapping up the closest guard into its giant jaws. The deep snarl rattled her ribs, the pulse so low it made the leaves tremble. The retinue of guards stopped as the creature closed in, turning to fend off the beast.

“Protect the Princess,” one guard commanded.

Lina, Bri, and Carys raced off the trail and breached the tree line, diving into the thick forest. Branches scratched along their arms and faces as they stumbled over the uneven terrain.

“Look out!” Carys shouted, and they skidded to a halt.

A line of six masked figures stood in front of them, swords drawn. Their attire was a mismatch of fighting leathers and armor, dented and worn from years of use. Their weapons looked one bad swing away from breaking but their stance told Bri they knew how to use them. Only their masks were pristine—the carved wood face of a snarling lion painted over in gold.

Were these witch hunters? Had that ailing fae who called himself king been the one to send them? How could they not be? It was far too convenient and unlikely to encounter another foe only hours after confronting the witch hunter king.