Zara sprinted across the snow, the cold biting her exposed face like a thousand needles. Bullets tore through the air, whistling dangerously close. The Reapers were relentless, their movements precise, mechanical—like predators closing in on prey.
She ducked behind a fallen tree trunk, her breathing measured despite her pounding heart. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught sight of Liv and the others retreating east, just as she'd ordered. Good. If she could buy them enough time, the group might live to see another day.
"Come on," Zara muttered to herself, reloading her pistol. Her fingers moved quickly despite the chill. "You've survived worse."
A sharp crack split the silence. Zara shifted just in time to avoid the jagged edge of a blade slamming into the wood beside her. Her attacker—a Reaper clad in black armor and a skeletal mask—was already lunging again. Zara rolled to the side, her boots slipping on the snow as she fired two shots.
One grazed his arm. The other found his neck.
The Reaper dropped silently, crimson staining the frost.
Zara grabbed his fallen knife—a wicked, curved weapon—and moved, weaving through the trees. She knew the Reapers' tactics well. They would circle her, close in, and overwhelm her through sheer numbers. If she stayed in one place, it would be over.
Her ears pricked at the faint sound of crunching snow. Zara turned just as another Reaper appeared, swinging an axe in a wide arc. She ducked low, the blade slicing through the air above her head. With fluid motion, she thrust the stolen knife up into his gut. He choked out a muffled gasp and fell.
Zara darted deeper into the forest, her lungs burning with each freezing breath. The terrain shifted as she ran—uneven and treacherous. She skidded to a halt when her foot struck something hard and metallic buried under the snow.
The ground beneath her gave way, and she plunged downward, landing hard in a pit lined with jagged roots and ice. Pain shot up her side, but she gritted her teeth, pushing herself upright. Overhead, shadowy figures loomed.
One of them—a tall figure wearing an ornate mask—stared down at her, silent and motionless.
"You've made quite the mess, Zara Kincaid," the figure said, his voice distorted through the mask.
Zara wiped blood from her lip, glaring defiantly. "And you've made a habit of underestimating me."
The figure tilted his head, amused. "The King anticipated this. You're an impressive thorn in his side."
"I'm the knife that'll cut his throat," Zara shot back, her voice icy.
The Reaper stepped back. A rope ladder dropped into the pit. "Take her to the outpost," he ordered. "The King will want her alive."
Zara's mind raced. Captured. Alive.
This wasn't over. It was just beginning.