Dorothea shrieked and ran to Rhys without thinking, dropping to her knees in the rapidly expanding puddle of blood around him. It coated her skin through her socks, hot and sticky, and bile shot up sourly in her throat. “Rhys,” she croaked after swallowing it back down, putting her hands to his cheeks. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” But he was already dead, of course. She looked at Cerid’s back as he stood between her and the enemy with his sword drawn, and Iree came to his side with fireballs being tossed between her hands.

After his organs reconnected and flesh knitted back together, Rhys came back to life with a gasp. He shuddered as Dorothea helped him sit up. “You’re fine,” she whispered. “You’re okay.”

He stared into her eyes as his color returned, labored breaths calming as he processed what had happened. His hand wrapped around hers and squeezed it in thanks, maybe reassurance as well, before he leaped to his feet. “Stay behind us no matter what happens,” he ordered.

Dorothea let out a shaky breath and stood, taking a few steps back. The Ghurians were all standing now too, albeit still wobbly from Rhys’ trap.

“See? Told you so,” Marley was declaring in the middle of a hacking cough to her companions. “Time magic.”

“Healing certainly is a pain in the ass to deal with.” The boy with wind magic—Johanna had called him Wesley—looked at Dorothea and smirked as he wrung out his shirt. His dark, mirth-filled eyes threatened to swallow her. “But it works through touch. So all I have to do is cut her arms off, right?”

Dorothea shivered. They were all terrifying, these Ghurians.

Johanna clapped her hands and did a little one-legged jig. “Ahaha! Not a bad plan.”

“Both of you, calm down,” the Wither-user said tonelessly.

“Aw, but…” Johanna pouted.

Evidently their leader, the Wither-user issued his commands. “If anyone makes a move, Johanna, we attack. Wesley, go and assist Namina and Petunia at the village. We’ll cover you.”

The village. There was no telling what was happening there. Shark, Ariana and the rest of the villagers could be horribly injured, even dead, and Dorothea wasn’t there to help them, reverse, heal, nothing.

“Wait!” she blurted. “Let’s negotiate!”

“Dorothea, stop.” Rhys looked back at her. “Don’t be afraid.”

“What, planning to capture us again? I’ll just cut you into pieces again, pretty boy.” Wesley turned his sadistic smile to Rhys. “Your water can beat ice, sure, but not wind. Shoulda killed us when you had the chance, you damned Sacerian pig.”

“Wither requires a living conduit to reach a target,” Iree stated. “You lack that where we’re standing. So it seems like you’re not the ones with the advantage here.”

“I’m open to negotiations,” the Wither-user stated, ignoring the verbal one-upping between sides and focusing his gaze on Dorothea. “Let’s have a calm chat.”

“Why should we?” Iree scoffed.

“Because that’s the only thing stopping us from killing you all. It doesn’t matter how much you reverse time. We’ll keep coming. Your only option is to kill us.” He cut Rhys a look before redirecting his inscrutable stare back to Dorothea. “And two of your allies don’t seem up to that challenge at the moment.”

Rhys and Iree shared a glance, and fury lit her face when she saw how uncertain he looked. “Fuck no!” she snapped. “We are not doing this!”

The Wither-user turned to Rhys, clearly choosing to capitalize on the captain’s weakness. “I’ll state my terms simply. Give us this fort and its guarded territories, and all Sacerians, civilian and soldier alike, can leave unharmed. If not, we kill you all and take the fort regardless. It’s your choice.”

Rhys’ hands were shaking, and he crossed his arms to hide it. “Who are you?” he demanded. Dorothea was surprised at how steady he managed to keep his voice but even more scared to see him showing signs of fear too.

The Wither-user blinked at him. “It hardly matters.”

“I won’t negotiate with someone who won’t even tell me his name.”

“Fair enough. My name is Gren Fall.” Oh, so it wasn’t Grenny, then. That was just a nickname. People like this had nicknames and inside jokes and friends…

“Gren. My name is Rhys Tamlin. There’s no way we can possibly agree to those conditions. And again, do you really think you’re in a position to be making demands?”

Gren tilted his chin up and looked at Dorothea. She felt impossibly small beneath his unfeeling gaze. “Your plan relies on the power of an obviously untrained civilian. With her out of the picture, it would be over in seconds.” He paused. “You. Rhys Tamlin. You had the chance to kill us and win, yet you hesitated. You only have yourself to blame. If you’re not willing to kill, then you, your comrades and your loved ones die. That’s the way it is.”

“It’s not—” Rhys began.

“He’s messing with your head. Move.” Iree pushed Rhys back so she was standing at the forefront of the confrontation.

Rhys looked back at Dorothea before facing ahead once more. “You’re cornered,” he insisted. “You won’t convince me that’s not true.”

“It could be true,” Gren conceded, “if only you had the will to come at us with the intent to end our lives.”

“Lucky enough,” Iree growled, “I have that will.” The choice was made for all of them as she lunged forth, Cerid flanking her.

“Now we’re in for it,” Rhys muttered as he lifted his hands, gaze flicking across the flurry of assaults that had broken out. It was difficult for Dorothea to comprehend it as she peeked out from behind his shoulder. She had to watch closely, closely, for if and when there was something she needed to stop.

It seemed to go well at first. Iree moved like a cat, drawing back with sharp, nimble movements when she needed to. She weaved with Cerid in perfect sync, attacking as the boy busied himself with stopping the enemies’ magics. From behind, Rhys assisted by intercepting and absorbing Johanna’s attacks and knocking the Ghurians off balance with pummeling jets of water. In the dance of death, it seemed like the Sacerians would emerge with the prize. But then something would go wrong. Cerid would be knocked back just long enough for Gren to use Wither, killing one or more of the Sacerians instantly. Each time, Dorothea reversed events to where Iree had made her challenge, announcing her will to keep fighting.

Again and again, the pattern leading up to death and the people who died changed. Just when it looked like the Ghurians would be finished off, with Gren always the last one standing, something would change in the boy. With Cerid and Iree advancing, he would grip the blade from his jacket and let out a harsh cry as he slashed at throats, hearts, any lethal point until the tide turned. Over and over, Dorothea watched both sides die, saw Rhys tense more and more in front of her. The events played out like a recurring nightmare. No matter how many times she called out advice or warned Iree of certain moves before she attacked, the conclusion was always the same. The fact was inescapable: the Ghurians were stronger. Gren Fall was a monster when cornered, a one-man army and a variable the Sacerians had been totally unprepared for.

After what would be the final reversal of the battle, Rhys turned back to Dorothea after she latched onto his back to hold herself up against a wave of dizziness. What began as a cursory glance over his shoulder turned into an alarmed stare. “You’re bleeding.” His brows furrowed. “Your magic?”

Dorothea licked her lips as blood ran from her nose down to them, the taste of salted rust fizzing at the roof of her mouth and locking itself around her tongue. “Rhys, it’s…” There didn’t seem to be a way. But she’d promised to help, she had! “I’m fine. I can keep going.”

He scrutinized her. “How many times have you seen this same scene play out?”

Gods, she’d lost count. Hours had passed of watching a battle that took less than five minutes each time. Helpless, Dorothea shook her head.

Thoughts unknown to her passed in shadows through his eyes. “We have to stop Iree. Understand? Just one more time, use your power. Then we’ll make sure you don’t have to again.”

Was it really okay? Because he was a leader and because it was him, whom she had come to trust and so often wonder about in such a short time, Dorothea complied. Since he needed to know of his own intentions in stopping the fight, she took him with her. She held his hand between hers, and they went back just a few moments that felt like days to her. They stood just like they had before, behind Iree and Cerid right before the fighting broke out once more. Rhys cast her a bewildered yet awed look before grabbing onto the back of Iree’s scarf right as she lunged.

“Shit!” she choked, elbowing Rhys in the gut as she coughed and righted herself. “The fuck, Rhys?!”

Rhys, letting out a wheeze from her blow, motioned to Dorothea. Iree’s expression crossed between confusion to clarity, dread to anger and finally calm acceptance through the course of a few seconds as she realized.

Dorothea could barely register the despair of it herself. Despite all of their confidence, here they were. Still, she had to confirm it. “It’s not going to go well, Iree.”

They were going to lose.