Chapter Nine

Voss

cursed under her breath. The ambush had been planned too well. If she engaged

Negar now, she would be playing right into the High Lord's hands.

Survival

first. Victory later.

"Fall

back!" she commanded, her voice ringing through the chaos. "Get to the cliffs!"

Drakonix

roared, banking hard to the left as Voss surveyed the battlefield below. Striga

and the warriors were already adapting, forming defensive lines while cutting

through the onslaught of twisted creatures. But the ice magic was spreading,

warping the land, slowing their retreat.

Negar's

piercing screech cut through the storm as the dragon dove, its massive wings

sending shockwaves through the valley. A blast of ice erupted from its maw,

freezing warriors where they stood.

Voss

reacted instantly, shadows lashing from her fingertips, shattering the frost

before it could consume her forces. "Move! Move now!"

Striga

hurled fire into the advancing enemies, her sword cutting down a mutated orc.

"We can't outrun them forever!" she shouted.

"We

don't need forever," Voss shot back. "Just long enough."

The

cliffs loomed ahead. If they could reach them, they could use the natural

formations to funnel the enemy into a narrow pass, forcing them to fight in a

bottleneck rather than being surrounded.

Drakonix

roared again, sweeping low to incinerate a group of warlocks before landing

beside Striga. "Get on!" Voss called.

Striga

hesitated for only a moment before leaping onto the hydra's back. Drakonix

launched into the air, its six heads spewing fire, lightning, and raw shadow

magic into the enemy lines. Below, the resistance fighters regrouped, pushing

toward the cliffs.

Then

came the voice—smooth, cold, and filled with amusement.

"You

run so well, little warrior."

Voss

felt it more than heard it. A whisper in her bones. A presence that coiled

around her like chains.

The

High Lord was here.

She

turned in midair—and there he stood atop a jagged spire of ice, cloaked in

darkness, his silver eyes gleaming. His hand was raised, and the shadows around

them thickened.

Drakonix

snarled, but Voss knew they had no time to face him now.

"GO!"

she roared.

With

a final burst of magic, she unleashed a shockwave of darkness, momentarily

shrouding the battlefield. In the confusion, the resistance fighters pushed

through, reaching the cliffs.

Negar

roared in frustration, but the High Lord only smiled.

"Run

while you can, Voss. This is only the beginning."

The

resistance regrouped in the cavernous expanse beneath the cliffs, a hidden

sanctuary shielded by jagged rock and enchanted wards. The scent of damp earth

and charred steel filled the air as warriors tended to their wounds, their

faces lined with exhaustion.

Voss

stood near the mouth of the cave, gazing out at the distant battlefield, where

ice still clung to the earth like a curse. Striga approached, tightening the

leather straps on her bracers.

"We

lost too many," she muttered. "The High Lord was waiting for us. Someone tipped

him off."

Voss's

jaw tightened. A traitor. That complicated things.

"We

don't have time to hunt spies," she said. "Not yet." She turned to the warriors

behind her. "We need to move. The longer we stay, the more likely they track

us."

Striga

folded her arms. "And go where? We can't keep running forever."

Voss

exhaled, glancing at the rough map spread over a stone slab. "The Shadow-forged

Blade," she said. "We go to the temple."

Murmurs

rippled through the gathered warriors. The Blade was a legend, a weapon forged

of shadow and divine power—the only thing capable of severing the High Lord's

growing connection to the eldritch realm.

Striga

narrowed her eyes. "That temple is lost to time. No one knows where it is."

"The

elves do," Voss said.

Silence.

The warriors exchanged uneasy glances.

If

we can reach the Elven capital, we might have a chance."

Striga

studied her for a long moment. "And if they refuse?"

Voss

met her gaze, unyielding. "Then we make the Queen listen."

Drakonix

rumbled behind her, six heads shifting impatiently. The time for waiting was

over.

The

resistance would march before dawn. And this time, they would not be running.