Marlowe
The skirmish broke apart faster than it had built, Blackfang riders retreating once it became clear the northern perimeter wasn't the soft target they'd hoped for — but not before we'd managed to pin one of them down, wounded and cornered against the tree line.
King reached him first, and I arrived a few seconds later, breathless, adrenaline still hammering through my whole body.
"Talk," King said, voice flat, dangerous in the particular quiet way I'd learned meant considerably more than shouting ever could.
The rider — young, scared despite his colors, clearly not senior enough to have earned the kind of composure this situation required — spat blood and glared, defiant for exactly as long as it took King to crouch down to his level and repeat the demand with a stillness that
