Page 27 of Cursed Shadows 4
This is it.
Not the way I thought I would go.
Yet, I fight to survive.
My arms flail, my chin lifts, and I suck in the sharpest breaths that have ever cut through me, like a sword has been plunged through me and severs my insides.
The panic of my gaze is fixed on the mudbank ahead, through the thick foam and mist.
The water steals me away, but the litalf is a blur of brown as he trudges through the mud. And his eyes are glaring right at me.
I can only hope this light male is from a dry court, where there are no streams to swim in, no lakes to float in, no rivers to play in, and so his skills in the water are unrefined.
But thoughts of the litalf threat are quickly replaced by the ice-burn down my chest as water shoves its way into my throat.
I’m pushed down.
My arms flail, my hands claw—and I drag myself back up to the surface of the river.
I sputter on a raspy breath.
Arms splashing on the foamy waters, I struggle to keep myself upright, even with the kicks of my legs—but I manage enough that, through the wetness slicking my face, I catch sight of brown leathers ahead.
The light male has reached the edge of the mudbank. And he has thrown himself into the rush of the river.
Buttercup eyes are alight with the hunt—and locked onto me. They are too pretty to be so bloodthirsty. But that is what his gaze is. Hungry for my guts in his hands.
The distance between us doesn’t soothe me.
The volatility of the rapids doesn’t ease me.
The litalf bites down on a small knife, and his arms stroke with practice, with skill. He swims with the thrust of the river to catch up with me.
If the rapids don’t kill me—he will.
The ease of his skill tells me of the worst luck possible. That the gods are not on my side as I foolishly thought for a moment. This male hunting me in the fucking river is from a wet court. He swims with too much ease, uses the current to his favour, he knows the waters as well as I know the woods.
I am thoroughly fucked.
Dare’s training voice, a tone of steel, thrums through me.
Evasion, evasion, evasion.
It’s my skill. My talent.
It’s one of the few tricks I have in my arsenal.
And it got me away from my landing spot uphill, down to the river, it kept me away from the litalf.
Evasion.
I am not dead yet. I let the currents lead me. I let the river help me evade. I wait for an opportunity.
And I try not to drown.
If there are any warriors nearby, fighting or running my way, chasing down the bank of the river, then I don’t know anything of it—I don’t hear them over the rushing waters of the river, I don’t see them through the droplets spraying in my face or thefoamy surface plunging into my mouth, grabbing my head and pushing me under.
I wouldn’t know if a knife was zipping through the air at me until it burrowed into my head.
