She waited in silence as the men settled. They relaxed, talking and laughing. Schnurr had forbidden a fire given the dry contents of the windmill, and Vhalla knew that meant they would not stay up late and instead tuck underneath blankets to fight off the mountain chill.

Vhalla lay unmoving as the last of them began to settle. She counted to a thousand and listened for any indication that any were still awake before sliding off her sacks of grain. Vhalla kept her wrists close so that the shackles wouldn’t clank together.

She crept through the dim moonlight, holding her breath. She’d get one chance. Schnurr had made it quite clear that while he wouldn’t kill her, he could do a laundry list of other horrible things that would make her wish she was dead. If this attempt failed, Vhalla had no doubt he would be starting at the top of that list.

Vhalla stood over the sleeping man, debating if she should try for the saddlebag he clutched in his sleep—for the key she knew would be in there alongside the axe, or if she should take his sword and slit his throat first. Vhalla glanced at his weapon. Drawing it was likely to make enough sound that someone would wake. She crouched down and reached out slowly.

The man shifted and Vhalla stiffened, but he didn’t waken. Her fingers wormed their way through the flap of the saddlebag, feeling within. The crystals on the shackles almost burned her skin as her fingers brushed against the axe, and Vhalla winced. It was as if they waged a magical war with each other and her flesh was caught in-between.

Reaching forward, Vhalla continued her slow rummage. She was about to give up when she touched something iron and distinctly key-like. Her breath wavered with the rush of anticipation of removing the cuffs. Like a viper, fingers closed suddenly around her elbow, tight enough to pop bones, and Vhalla met Schnurr’s wide eyes.

“You are a bold little cur,” he growled.

Vhalla gripped the key and tugged herself free. Schnurr was moving as well, and Vhalla fumbled with her hoped-for salvation, but she couldn’t quite get the right angle of the key and lock while shackled. He lunged for her—sending the saddlebag sliding across the room—and their tumbling woke the other Knights.

Schnurr grabbed for his sword and Vhalla tried to wrestle it from his hands. She leaned forward, biting one of his wrists hard enough that blood exploded into her mouth. Cursing, Schnurr instinctively pulled away, and Vhalla won the weapon.

Still sheathed, she drew it back and twisted her body—just as Daniel had once shown her—to put all her momentum in the thrust. The tip of the scabbard sunk into Schnurr’s neck and Vhalla watched his eyes bulge as he gasped for air. It was blunted, but the force crushed his windpipe.

The other Knights were nearly upon her. Vhalla looked around desperately, trying to reason if it made more sense to try to fight them off or spend the seconds she had left trying to get the shackles unlocked. She dropped the sword and scrambled for the key.

“Wind scum!” one of the Knights shouted as he kicked her, the heel of his boot digging into her shoulder.

Vhalla was sent rolling, but she clutched the key so tightly her nails left bloody arcs in her hand. She was back to trying to unlock the shackles. Her magic would mean her freedom, her longevity. The axe was already in the hand of one of her assailants.

“We should just kill you,” one snarled as he looked at the corpse of the bushy-mustached major.

“Kill her! Take the axe,” another said, brandishing the weapon. “We can find another Windwalker in time. We have the axe and that is more important.”

Vhalla watched the man as he spoke, twisting her hands against the cuffs.

“We stick to the plan and head to the caverns.”

“Why?” Mutiny rumbled between the now leaderless Knights. “I say we kill her.”

A Knight grabbed for her and Vhalla plunged her heel into his groin. The man instantly let go, a string of foul language spilling from his lips. She spun face-to-face with the man wielding the axe.

“Kill the wind bitch!” Two strong hands grabbed her.

Vhalla struggled valiantly against the man’s hold on her. She watched as the axe-wielding Knight raised it. If only she had her magic.

Fire suddenly erupted over their shoulders at the door.

“What the?” The men turned.

“Get that under control!”

A man held out his hand, and the flames swayed as they roared against his command.

“I said put it out!”

“I’m trying!” the sorcerer struggled.

The fire was magic, Vhalla blinked at its warm heat. A Firebearer would be able to assume control of any normal flame without any trouble. But a flame created by another sorcerer became a battle of power, and clearly these flames were crafted by a Firebearer of fearsome skill.

The flames caught the dry grain, and the wooden inside of the windmill was quickly going up like kindling. The men scrambled like rats, trapped between stone and flame.

It was impossible. Vhalla blinked as more of the room caught. She’d been forgotten about as the men tried to charge for the door, for escape. They sweated, they screamed, they shied from the heat. Vhalla watched them as they burned, even the Firebearer overcome by the magical inferno.

And she felt little more than heat.

Vhalla walked toward the flames that blocked the door—there was no change. There was only one man’s flames that wouldn’t harm her, but it couldn’t be him. Aldrik couldn’t be here. She was so entranced by the predicament that she didn’t notice the structure beginning to collapse around her until a large beam cracked.