Bethral’s enemy made the mistake of glancing in Ezren’s direction. She didn’t. She lunged at him, grabbing his trous at the waist. With one hand she pulled herself off the ground. With the other, she thrust her dagger deep into his groin. He screamed and fell, blood spurting from the wound. Bethral pushed him off. Pain lanced through her body, and she caught a glimpse of glistening white bone and her own red blood. She looked away, trying to focus past the pain. Her sword lay just out of reach, and she twisted to reach for it. Her fingers touched the pommel as the pain surged again, clouding her vision. It was a fight to stay conscious. She wanted a blade in her hand before— Wild magic lashed past her. She jerked her head around. The Storyteller stood covered in fire, his face screwed up in agony. The flames writhed around him, reaching out, seeking— “Down!” Bethral shouted. “Get down, get down.” She didn’t wait to see if anyone listened. She flipped over, pressing her face to the grass, covered her head.
