Chapter 9 Silver Poison

The cold iron burned through my skin.

My breath stopped. The force of the throw knocked me backward. I looked down. A silver hilt protruded from my chest, just an inch below my collarbone.

My knees gave out.

Vasilis caught me before I hit the mud. His massive arms wrapped around my shoulders, shielding my body.

Chaos erupted.

Ignatius let out a roar that did not sound human. It was a sound of pure, starved fury. Orson summoned pillars of black fire, illuminating the dark valley. Isidore spread his wings, taking to the sky with his glowing blade.

"To the tent!" Vasilis bellowed.

He scooped me up. The movement jarred the dagger in my chest. A scream tore past my lips. My vision went white.

He sprinted across the camp. The wind whipped my hair across my face. Shouts and the clash of steel echoed all around us. The surrounding was under attack.

Vasilis kicked the heavy canvas flap open and carried me inside. He laid me on the cot. The furs felt rough against my bare skin.

"Look at me, Victoria," he ordered. His golden eyes locked onto mine. He placed a thick hand on my uninjured shoulder. "Keep your eyes open."

"It burns," I gasped. My hands gripped the edges of the thick wolf pelt. Blood soaked the torn black silk of my dress. It was warm and sticky.

"Silver," Vasilis snarled. He looked at the hilt. "Poisoned. I have to pull it out."

I gritted my teeth. In Paris, a papercut warranted a bandage and a glass of wine. Here, I was bleeding out on a dirt floor.

"Do it," I told him.

He gripped the hilt. He did not hesitate. He yanked the blade free.

Agony exploded in my chest. I arched off the cot, my nails digging into the animal hides. Vasilis tossed the bloody dagger aside and pressed a thick wad of linen against the wound. His sheer weight held me down.

"Breathe," he commanded.

"Get your hands... off me," I choked out.

A dark amusement flashed in his eyes. "You are stubborn. Good."

The noise outside grew louder. Swords struck shields. Men screamed. The war camp was a battlefield.

Vasilis turned his head toward the entrance. His ears twitched. His nostrils flared, taking in the scents of the camp.

"They breached the southern line," he said, his voice a low rumble. He stood up, grabbing the massive broadsword from his back. "I will secure the entrance. Stay on that cot."

He walked to the tent flap, his broad back facing me.

I pressed my own hand against the linen. My fingers grew slick with red. I tried to slow my breathing. Panic pumped the blood faster. I needed ice in my veins.

A soft, tearing sound came from the back of the tent.

I turned my head.

The thick canvas ripped open from top to bottom. Two figures stepped through the gap. They wore dark leather armor and black masks that covered the lower halves of their faces. Assassins.

They did not look at Vasilis. They looked straight at me.

The first assassin lunged.

Vasilis spun around. He intercepted the man before he took three steps. The Alpha did not use his sword. He grabbed the assassin by the throat, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the central wooden pillar. The wood splintered.

The second assassin did not stop. He skirted the edges of the fire pit, drawing a curved blade from his belt. He was fast. He moved like a shadow.

Vasilis roared, but he was tangled with the first man. The first assassin drew a hidden knife and drove it into the Alpha's side. Vasilis snarled, his claws sinking deep into the attacker's neck.

The second assassin reached the foot of my cot.

I had nowhere to run. My body was broken. I held a bloody rag to my chest. He raised the curved blade. His eyes were cold, fixed on the crescent mark near my collarbone.

I did not scream. I did not beg.

I looked right into his eyes.

"Wait," I commanded.

My voice was steady. It held the same authority I used to silence boardrooms and red carpets. It was not a plea. It was an order.

The assassin hesitated. The blade paused in mid-air.

"You want the prophecy dead," I said. I pushed myself up on one elbow. The pain threatened to drag me into darkness, but I held on. "You want the glory of killing the star that fell from the sky."

He blinked. His grip on the weapon shifted. He was confused. Victims were supposed to cry. They were supposed to cower. They did not lecture their killers.

"If you strike me from there," I continued, keeping my tone deadpan, "the blood will ruin the rest of this dress. And I hate a messy scene."

I shifted my weight on the cot, exposing my neck. I tilted my chin up, offering him a clean strike.

"Come closer," I challenged. "Look me in the eye when you do it."

He took the bait.