With all the bravery she possessed, Vhalla crossed the distance between them; he straightened and looked down at her, imposing. Vhalla swallowed hard and tried to muster her last scrap of confidence. There would be time later to ask him about the real reasons behind the war. For now, they needed to go home.

She grabbed his hand, praying it didn’t burst into flames at her touch. It didn’t.

“Quit being stupid, Aldrik. Let’s go.” His features barely softened, but it was more than enough to know she had made herself clear. Whatever this man was, he wasn’t a monster. Vhalla took a step back, turning to grab Roan and start the gory trek home.

With stunning clarity, she heard the distinct twang of a bowstring piercing the air. Vhalla moved instinctively in front of her prince.

She screamed a noise worse than any she had never made before as the arrow pierced her shoulder.

“Vhalla!” he roared as she fell to her knees.

She gasped for air, she gasped to make a sound. The pain seared through every nerve in her body, across every synapse in her mind. It seized her muscles and forced her to blink dizzying blackness from the edges of her sight. His hands were supporting her but his attention was elsewhere. Vhalla turned her head to try to see what he saw. But when she caught sight of the arrow sticking out of her body she instantly struggled with consciousness.

“My, isn’t this charming?” Vhalla tilted her head over her other shoulder to see the source of the voice. Her vision was becoming tunneled and she willed her eyes to focus.

There were three of them.

“It’s the jugglers,” she murmured.

“Don’t talk,” Aldrik whispered harshly, his thumb caressing her shoulder as he supported her.

“Careful, they’re, they’re missing...” She struggled to count. “They’re missing two still.”

He glanced at her and then back at the people.

“Don’t you think it’s charming?” a man asked.

“It really is,” came a nasally woman’s voice.

“The noble prince, defending the damsel. Who knew the Fire Lord had it in him?” the man snarked.

Vhalla heard the ring of metal on metal as a sword was drawn. These people truly wanted to kill them, Vhalla realized as she felt blood soaking down to her waist. She wasn’t in a position to run anymore; if he carried her, she would only burden him.

“Aldrik...” she whispered. He didn’t move but she knew he’d heard. “Go, go and leave me.” It was her fault he was there in the first place. The last thing she could do in her life was to ensure the heir to the throne did not die on account of her stubbornness. Vhalla closed her eyes and dipped her head.

“No,” he replied in a soft and low voice.

“Your life is worth more than mine. It’s the life I partly gave you, isn’t it?” She smiled faintly as she heard footsteps and the crunch of bodies across the street. Aldrik said nothing. “I should have some say over whether you throw it away or not. So, go.” His fingers gripped into her arms. She was fairly sure he was bruising her.

“You know, we thought it was a lie you were alive at all.” It was the man’s voice again. Aldrik still hadn’t moved. “Our leader brewed the poison that was on the dagger. One prick should’ve killed a large Noru Cat, and I hear you had the whole damn thing in your side.”

Aldrik’s breathing had become heavy. Vhalla was confused about the mention of a dagger.

“Then again, we also hoped that if the poison failed to kill you, the shame of one of your dear sweet brother’s men stabbing you in the back would be enough.”

Aldrik stood, and she swayed without his support. Yes, Vhalla thought weakly, go. She propped herself up with her uninjured arm and turned to sit on rubble so she could face her attackers. Unfortunately, Aldrik hadn’t run. He stood, fire surrounding his fists again.

One of the women laughed. “He’s still injured. Look, that pathetic little spark is likely all he can muster.” This woman was holding a bow, and Vhalla hoped she could keep her eyes open long enough to watch the woman’s face be burnt off. “Come, let us end this now.” She notched an arrow on her bowstring.

The man held his sword with both hands and the other woman followed suit. Aldrik took a few steps toward them, and Vhalla’s stomach twisted in agony. He wasn’t going to run. The three advanced slowly.

“Careful, he may be a beast with clipped claws, but he’s still a beast,” the man warned.

“If he’s still a beast, can we shave him when we’re done and wear his skin as a pelt?” Nasal voice asked.

“I’d rather hang it off my bow and wave it like a flag,” the archer chimed, glancing at her comrades.

That was all it took, and Aldrik seized his opportunity. He charged and grabbed at her bow, immediately setting flame to both the hand and the weapon. The man was upon him quickly, however, and Aldrik was forced to relinquish his hold in order to dodge. He moved his fingers through the air, creating a curtain of flame; the man’s momentum caused him to step into it. The swordswoman dashed around and lunged from the side. Aldrik twisted his body and brought his elbow down hard on the back of her neck, sending her reeling. In a horrible way, he was like a song of death and flame.

“You bastard,” the man groaned as he found his footing again, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Aldrik stepped back, but into the archer’s blow as she snapped the remains of her weapon across the back of his head. Aldrik gave a cry, falling to his knees. Vhalla felt her heart stop.

The man advanced on him with a satisfied grin, prepared to deal his fatal blow. Aldrik stuck out his hand and grabbed the man’s ankle; flames burned up the side of the man’s body and not even the paint could protect his skin. Aldrik rolled out of the way of the crash of the swordswoman’s attack and gained his footing again. Vhalla could see he was already winded, his posture hunched slightly.

The archer charged. Aldrik dodged easily and responded with a punch to her gut, but there was no more flame. The swordswoman spun, Aldrik dropped to a knee and held out his hand before crying out in anguish, his hand on his hip where she had seen a dark spot on his magic months ago.

The man chuckled darkly. Vhalla looked upon the Northerner in horror. Half of his clothes had been burnt off, large chunks of flesh with it. He looked like a corpse returned to life.

“See...” he heaved roughly. “His magic fails him.”

Aldrik glared up at the Northerners. His hair had fallen out of place wildly and it clung to his sweat-drenched face. His features were twisted in pain, but he was still proud and defiant. The crown prince’s hands clutched his hip as he looked up the sword at his throat.

“This is how a prince dies,” the man snickered and drew back his sword.

Vhalla opened her mouth to cry out.

“Wait!” The bow woman said, throwing off her mask. “I have a better idea.” She wore a wicked grin.

“Let’s just kill him and be done with it,” the nasal woman breathed, still catching her breath.

“Death is no fun without pain,” the archer said darkly.

“I will not scream.” Aldrik chuckled. “Whatever you do, I will not scream or beg, so it will be very boring.”

Vhalla studied the prince. His posture was relaxed and his voice calm, there was something almost inviting in its deep tones. As much as she wanted to believe he was bluffing, the tiny smirk told her otherwise. She hurt, and not from the arrow protruding from her. He had come to terms with his own death, and Aldrik was prepared to meet it at this moment. Her breath hitched in her throat.