Rebecka Evertrue's Arc

Chapter 1 of 66

Rebecka Evertrue stood at the wide window and counted six raiders on the ridge. Six meant a scouting line. A scouting line meant a bigger group behind it. The star-forged quiver she needed was three days' ride north, buried in a dead pilot's cache, and every hour she wasted here made the trail colder. Every hour she left made the ridge closer. She pressed her palm to the glass. Beyond it, the homestead's cultivated beds glowed soft green, herbs and strange fruit stacked in sleek trays down the outer walls. Her mother was inside, sorting seed. Her sister was in the loft. If Rebecka rode out tonight, the raiders would be over the fence by dawn. Boots on the floor behind her. Marcus Valorheart set his pack down without a word. He was the warrior who had put himself between her and a blade a year ago and never left since. His potion belt clinked as he crossed to the apothecary shelf and started pulling stoppered bottles down. "You saw them," she said. "Six on the ridge. More in the trees." He lined four potions on the counter. Blue. Green. Two the color of old blood. "Go north. I'll hold the house." "Marcus." "It's not a debate." "They'll send twenty. You have one set of hands." He looked up. His voice softened one notch. "I have wards. I have time to lay them if you leave now." He tapped the blue bottle. "And I have this." She knew what he wouldn't say. He knew the curse that leveled city blocks. He had sworn never to cast it. She had made him swear it twice. A small weight pressed against her boot. The grey tomcat in the patched cape sat at her ankle, tail curled, wizard hat tipped forward. Behind him, the tiny black and white kitten padded out from under the shelf, paws already glowing faint white. The healer. The two of them had adopted the homestead months ago and never left. "They'll stay with him," Rebecka said. It was not a question. The cheese-caped cat blinked once, slow. The kitten purred, and the sound settled something low in her chest. If Marcus took a wound, the kitten could keep him breathing. If the wards cracked, the tom knew tricks she still didn't understand. She pulled her bow off the hook. Three arrows left in the quiver at her hip. Ordinary shafts. The star-forged ones were what she was riding for. At the door she stopped. "If it goes bad—" "It won't." "If it does. You don't cast it. You retreat to the cellar and you wait for me." He didn't answer. That was the answer. She stepped out into the cold. Behind her, Marcus began to chalk the first ward across the threshold. Ahead, the ridge waited, and past it, three days of open ground between her and the arrows that could end this for good.