She skidded to a halt where the trees descended into a gully, hoping the edge might offer an advantage. She grabbed a hefty branch from the ground and faced her pursuers. Five of them, all men.

“She’s waiting for her Fair One friends to drop out of the sky and save her!”

The wind stirred the leaves overhead.

Drop out of the sky, Shan. Please! Do as he says and save me!

Nothing happened. She heaved in a breath.

“Leave me alone.” She clenched her teeth, her knuckles white where she gripped her makeshift weapon.

Their laughter roared in her ears. They couldn’t imagine that anything could hurt them, least of all one small woman, so outnumbered. The first walked forwards, a knife in his hand. The irony of it twisted in her stomach—Jeren, sister of the Scion of Jern, heiress to River Holt, killed by a bunch of drunken louts from a hole like Brightling’s Dale? It wasn’t going to happen. She would not allow it!

Jeren lashed out. The impact of the wood on his arm jarred through her. His bone shattered.

She didn’t pause. They weren’t going to line up and politely attack her one by one. The other four scrambled forwards, a ragged pack who, sensing danger, would rely on their numbers. She crouched low. There were too many, despair told her. The foremost caught her arm and she saw the flash of a knife. Pain exploded in her side.

An unearthly shriek came from above her and something white plummeted into the face of the third man, beak and talons rending his flesh. He fell beneath the screeching owl, flailing wildly. Anala hurtled into the one with the bloody knife, her whole body her weapon. They tumbled down the gully, man and wolf, a cacophony of screams and snarls.

The other pair faltered. They were staring at Jeren in horror now, their faces pale with dread. No, not at her…past her, above her…

Shan unfolded silently from the tree branch and dropped to the ground, his sword already drawn.

“Run away,” he told them. His voice rippled like the breeze through the leaves. “Run away now.”