the scripted red bandages that covered his head. “We should head up the mountain to the Fallen Leaf pass. All of us.”
Kelsa grabbed his outer robe and bowed her head. She couldn’t see his face even if she looked up, but she was about to make a shameless request, and she didn’t want to see disgust in his eyes.
“Please, stay and fight. This one begs you.”
Over the last week, she’d seen him in battle. If he and his sister and Orthos chose to fight with her, maybe they could resist even these overwhelming numbers. They could hold a pass, or strike at them and retreat, or…something.
She was already in their debt. They had risked their safety for her, a stranger, and she couldn’t repay them. Now, they weren’t strangers any longer, but she hated to ask for any more.
Jai Long’s voice sounded awkward when it wasn’t cold and distant. “Kelsa, this is…hopeless. Come with us. I promise you, I can get your parents out.”
“…I can’t.”
Kelsa released him and took a deep breath, squaring herself. She looked him evenly in the eyes. “This is my fault.” Behind her, she felt the heat of Heaven’s Glory madra like a wildfire. “I will pay the cost of my choices, but I would be grateful if you would look out for my parents as you leave.”
“Fine.” Jai Long’s icy tone was back. He turned to Orthos. “And you?”
Orthos nudged Jai Chen with his head, sending her stumbling closer to her brother. “Go. They have no dragons fighting for them, so I say they’re outnumbered.” The blood running down his leg turned the dirt to mud.
“Very well, then. Die with honor, turtle.”
“You as well, human.”
They traded nods before Jai Long left, pulling Jai Chen behind him. She mouthed an apology to Orthos, and the pink serpentine dragon-spirit floating over her shoulder gave a long, mournful flute note.
But they both left.
Kelsa didn’t blame them.
They had done more for her than they needed to. They weren’t family. She had been embarrassed to ask for their help in the first place, and they were well within their rights to refuse.
She rose to her feet as gold light speared down from the heavens and incinerated the tree stump her father had used as a table for his game board.
“Okay. How can we do the most damage?” she asked.
Orthos looked at her with his one good eye and started to chuckle. “I don’t need a Jade standing beside me.”
“You’re Jade too, for now,” she pointed out. “And this is my mess. It’s only fair that I clean it up.”
The turtle squared himself on all four feet, including the injured one. Red light and black smoke rose from his shell. “What makes you think there will be any left for you?”
He unveiled his spirit.
And immediately froze.
Kelsa knew something was wrong, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. She cycled her madra and extended her perception, trying to figure out if he was under attack or if he’d seen something else coming.
He began to laugh.
Not the grim chuckle of a moment before, but full-bellied, joyous laughter.
He had gone insane.
“He’s here,” Orthos said.
Kelsa was not following this at all, but Heaven’s Glory had spotted them. Already hands and weapons were launching techniques in their direction, and she had to shelter behind a nearby tree. “Who?” she called.
The turtle didn’t answer her, as chuckles shook his body. “Hold on for a little longer, girl. This battle is almost won.”
No matter how Kelsa turned it in her mind, she didn’t understand his confidence. No matter who came for them, they would be reduced to Jade, just like him.
But she held on to that tiny, flickering hope for all she was worth.
On the slopes of the mountain above them, green light flared. Sacred artists in the uniforms of the Fallen Leaf School shoved at the wave of fleeing people. Trees and vines came to life, pushing them back, trapping them.
At least the school hadn’t started slaughtering the exiles, but it was the next best thing. Fallen Leaf had denied them shelter, leaving them to die.
Despair choked her, but it was nothing compared to the terror she felt when she turned back.
Heaven’s Glory was already upon them.
Four Jades had abandoned their meticulous march, dashing out ahead of their fellows to focus on Orthos.
The man at their vanguard was in his forties, with silver-winged hair and a stern expression. He gestured one arm that had been scarred and mangled, and a scripted sword flew at them with