The wind carried the scent before I saw them—leather, oil, iron, blood.

A tremor sparked beneath my skin, and then the scream of metal on wood tore through the trees. The carriage. Your carriage.

I leapt from the treetops before thought could form, claws already tearing through the veil between restraint and retribution. The moment I landed, they turned too slow—eyes wide, mouths spilling cowardice.

One drew a blade. I crushed it between my teeth.

The next begged. I did not hear him.

They became silhouettes in flame. Ash in motion. I do not remember how many. My wings, half-formed and slick with blood, beat the ground into a crater. My mind was no longer mine. Only the image of your terrified eyes haunted the space behind my vision. Only the fear that I was too late.

And then—

A whisper. Gentle. Like a thread of silk dragging against flame.