The wind had turned, dragging smoke across the fields in long, dirty sheets. Elara crouched low behind the old threshing bench, bow in hand, breath held tight in her chest.

  The barn burned behind her. Its roof had already buckled, throwing sparks into the dark. Firelight danced across the yard, stretching the shadows of the men who prowled it—three, maybe four. One dragged a pitchfork behind him, metal teeth carving lines through the earth. Another hurled a bottle against the side of the chicken coop and laughed at the flurry of wings that burst into the sky.

  Inside the farmhouse, a face moved at the upstairs window. Mara. Elara saw her duck away quickly, shielding something behind her. She heard the muffled sobs of Finn.

  Footsteps shifted in the grass beside Elara as Misty rejoined her.

  She moved like smoke, low to the ground, her ginger fur streaked with soot and blood. She paused, ears flat, tail low, waiting.

  Elara gave the faintest nod and tapped two fingers toward the porch, then a third toward the open gate. Spread too far, these men. Sloppy. Arrogant.

  Misty didn’t blink. Just turned and disappeared into the shadows.

  Elara waited.

  Not yet.

  Not until it mattered.

  The bottle-thrower wandered toward the chicken coop again, muttering to himself. He pulled another rag-stuffed bottle from his belt, teeth worrying the cork. Smoke from the barn rolled behind him, curling orange and black across the yard. He turned to shout something to the others—then stopped mid-breath.

  Misty was already there. A taut bundle of muscle and killing intent stared him down; he never had time to scream.

  Elara didn’t see the pounce, only the blur that followed. One moment the man stood, arm raised. The next, a shape coiled from the dark—low, sleek, impossibly fast. The bottle fell. The man didn’t have a chance. Just a twitch, a flash of claws, and he vanished behind the coop.

  Elara closed her eyes for half a heartbeat. One down.

  She rose to a crouch, shifting from the cover of the threshing bench to the edge of the stacked firewood pile. The wood was half-burnt, scorched black on one side from the barn’s collapse. Smoke stung her eyes. She blinked it away.

  The pitchfork-dragger turned at the sound of the bottle dropping. His brows furrowed. He took a few steps toward the coop, frowning, dragging the tines of his crude weapon behind him. A long smear carved a trail in the dirt.

  Elara froze behind the woodpile, every muscle tight. The pitchfork stopped just a few feet away. She could hear his breathing—wet, uneven. He stepped closer. Closer still.

  Then the air changed.

  A soft thump overhead. A creak of wood. The man looked up.

  Misty dropped from the roof.

  Elara saw the shape fall—a blur of fur and talon—and then the thud of impact. The pitchfork clattered to the dirt. A sharp grunt, then silence. She didn’t look.

  She moved.

  Low and quick, Elara crossed the yard to the side of the house, pressing herself into the narrow shadow between two broken rain barrels. The back porch was in view now—worn steps, one slightly askew. A smudge of blood on the railing. Not fresh.

  One guard still patrolled the far side, just out of view. Another could be anywhere. Unknowns gnawed at her. She hated unknowns.

  A soft sound to her right—Misty again. The hellcat reappeared near the porch, her bulk low to the ground. One paw lifted, delicate despite its size. Blood dripped from her muzzle, dark and glistening.

  She looked at Elara. Ears forward. Waiting.

  Elara held up two fingers. One curled down. Then the other.

  Misty vanished beneath the porch without a sound.

  Elara counted her breath. One. Two. Three—

  A crack, then a scuffle. A gurgle. A foot thumped once against the porch rail. Then silence again.

  Elara moved past the back steps, circling toward the storm cellar half-buried beneath scrub and ivy. The barn’s heat pressed at her back, but here the air felt cooler—still, thick with ash and smoke. She crouched beside the hatch. One hinge was snapped clean; the other sagged, twisted. Someone had tried to kick their way in, and failed.

  She tested the edge. It shifted with a creak.

  She paused. No sound from approaching bandits—it looked like she was clear.

  Knife in one hand, she braced her shoulder, and lifted.

  The hatch gave with a brittle crack and a breath of damp, earth-sour air. She slipped inside, landing light on packed soil, the dark folding tight around her.

  Footsteps came in fast as a shape surged from the shadows. Something heavy swung toward her head.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  She twisted—just quick enough to avoid a blurred movement, followed by a blunt crunch of wood on stone.

  A breathless voice: “Get back—!”

  “Joel!” she hissed, half-ducking, blade raised.

  The figure froze. Then: “Elara?”

  She straightened, breath sharp in her chest. “It’s me. Easy.”

  He lowered the length of fence post he’d nearly caved her skull in with. His face, when she saw it, was drawn tight with strain and relief.

  “Gods,” he whispered. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  Elara offered a tight smile, the knife still firm in her hand. “That makes two of us.”

  Joel stepped back, waving her through the narrow root cellar tunnel. The air was damp and close, the low ceiling held up by timber beams that looked older than the war. She followed him in silence, careful not to scuff the floor. He led her to a slatted door barely wider than her shoulders. It opened into the farmhouse kitchen.

  The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of firelight leaking in through shuttered cracks. The smell of smoke was thick here too—mixed with sweat, old food, and fear. Mara crouched in the far corner, arms around a small shape pressed into her chest. She looked up as Elara entered.

  “Elara,” she breathed, disbelief softening into relief. “You’re safe—”

  Elara crossed the room quickly and dropped into a crouch beside them. “You too. That’s what matters.” She placed a hand on Mara’s shoulder, her other gently brushing the back of Finn’s head. He peeked up—wide-eyed, silent, his small hands gripping his mother’s tunic.

  “We thought—” Mara started, but her voice caught. She shook her head instead.

  “They haven’t broken through,” Elara said. “You held. That’s more than most would manage.”

  Joel barred the door again behind them, leaning the makeshift post back against the frame. “We’ve not slept properly in two days. They arrived just after you left to find the skep nest. Since then we’ve barely dared to light a fire. Figured if we made it through the night, help would come. Didn’t expect it to be just you.”

  Elara stood and checked the shutter slits. “It’s not just me.” She tilted her head slightly. “Misty’s outside.”

  Joel blinked. “The cat?”

  Elara gave a small, humourless smile. “Sort of.”

  He didn’t ask for clarification.

  A distant shout cut through the quiet—muffled but real. A voice from outside. Too far to make out words. Joel flinched.

  “They’re thinning,” Elara said. “But it’s not done yet.”

  She turned toward the stairs.

  “Wait,” Mara called softly. “There’s a man. He tried the door twice today. Just once more and—”

  “I’ll find him,” Elara said. “You stay here. Bolt the door behind me. Don’t open it for anything unless you hear my voice.”

  They both nodded. Finn clung to his mother’s waist, burying his face again.

  Elara padded up the stairs, each creak of the boards underfoot sounding louder than it should. The hall was dim, smoke from outside seeping in through the warped eaves. The windows upstairs faced east, the broken panes giving her a clean view of the far edge of the field and the road beyond.

  Movement.

  A man stepped briefly into sight—ragged cloak, slung crossbow, pausing near the old hay rack. He turned, just enough to show his profile, scanning the house from a distance.

  Elara didn’t think. She stepped back, drew in a smooth motion, and loosed.

  The arrow sailed—low arc, long draw.

  It struck his neck just beneath the jawline.

  The man staggered, dropped his weapon, and pitched forward into the dirt with a twitch. Blood darkened the grass beneath him.

  Elara let out a breath through her nose.

  “I was aiming for the heart,” she muttered. “Too bloody far.”

  Outside, somewhere near the chicken run, a scream flared—and cut off just as fast. Gurgling to a wet, silent close. Elara didn’t need to see to know Misty had taken care of the last one.

  Opening the window fully, Elara stepped out onto the balcony, boots silent on the scorched boards. The wood gave a faint groan beneath her weight, but the scream from near the chicken run had masked most of it. She moved to the edge and froze.

  A cough from below.

  Someone had heard. A shadow shifted near the well—broad shoulders, rising slow. He’d been sitting against the wall, hidden by the angle of the eaves. Now he was getting up, rubbing at his face, blinking sleep from his eyes. Beard. Patchy armour. Long knife on his belt.

  Elara didn’t hesitate.

  She vaulted the rail and dropped like a stone.

  She hit him hard—knee to the back, blade flashing down. He grunted and staggered, but caught her arm before the knife found home. They rolled—his size throwing her sideways into the dirt.

  He was fast. Filthy, snarling, already swinging.

  Elara ducked the first swipe, felt the second slice the air near her cheek. She closed, slammed the heel of her hand into his jaw. He reeled—but not enough. He came at her with a low grunt, tackling her to the ground, knife hand hammering down again and again.

  She blocked one strike with her forearm—pain lancing up to her elbow—then twisted, drove her elbow into his ribs. His blade caught her tunic, nicked her hip. Warmth bloomed.

  She hissed.

  He grinned.

  "Should've stayed inside, girl."

  Elara spat blood into his face, drove her knee into his groin and rolled. Now she was on top. Her blade punched for his throat but caught on his raised forearm—slid, redirected. He bucked again. Rolled her this time.

  The knife was coming for her heart.

  A blur hit him sideways.

  Fur. Claws. Teeth.

  He screamed as Misty slammed into him, pinning him like a child’s toy beneath one massive paw. Her teeth found his shoulder and tore. Blood sprayed, dark and sudden. He tried to scream again, but it choked out wet.

  Elara pushed herself up, breath ragged, hands shaking. She watched, heart hammering, as Misty finished the job with brutal efficiency. Then the cat turned, blood dripping from her muzzle.

  Elara wiped her face with her sleeve and nodded once. “Thanks.”

  Misty flicked an ear and sat down calmly beside the body, beginning to clean the gore from one outstretched leg.

  The yard had gone still.

  Not silent—embers still hissed in the ruins, and the distant clatter of scorched timber echoed across the fields—but the chaos had passed. The battle was over.

  Elara stood by the log pile, one foot braced against the final body, blood still slick on the blade in her hand. Her breath came sharp but steady. Smoke drifted through the air in lazy spirals, carrying the stink of ash, sweat, and death. Above her, the sky had darkened to bruised purple, the last light caught in the black ribs of the barn’s half-collapsed roof.

  Misty sat a few feet away, cleaning her blood-matted fur with slow, precise strokes. Her ears twitched once as footsteps approached.

  Del emerged from the treeline at a jog, sword still drawn, his coat streaked with soot and something darker. He slowed as the scene unfolded before him—bodies strewn across the yard, arrows embedded in posts and flesh alike, and Elara, solid as stone at the centre of it all.

  He came to a halt beside Misty, who looked up briefly.

  ‘Took you long enough,’ she commented, then returned to her grooming with deliberate disdain.

  Del’s eyes found Elara’s. She met his gaze without speaking. Just a faint nod. Job done.

  The barn gave a final, drawn-out groan behind them, then collapsed with a shuddering crash, sending sparks spiralling into the night.

  Del exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He looked toward the farmhouse. “They’re safe?”

  Elara nodded again. “Barricaded, but unhurt.”

  He let that settle. Then: “Naomi.”

  Misty stopped mid-lick, ears tilting toward him.

  “I know where she is,” Del said. His voice was low, rough. A statement, not a question. “We move now.”

  Elara wiped her blade on the last man’s cloak and slipped it back into its sheath. “Then let’s not waste time.”

  They turned together toward the road beyond the fields, the fire behind them still glowing—no longer danger, just memory.