"Who said you could touch her?"

  Liora’s voice was flat. It carried the weight of a whetstone against steel—cold, abrasive, and final. She did not shout. People like Liora didn't need to.

  Behind her, the Princess’s griffin loomed. The beast was a wall of muscle and feathers, its beak slightly parted to let out a low, rhythmic growl that shook the dry leaves on the forest floor. It didn't charge. It simply waited, its talons furrowing the earth.

  The lead goblin didn't take the hint. It was a jaundice-yellow thing with skin like wet parchment. It sneered, peeling back its lips to reveal teeth like jagged, broken shards of flint. Thick saliva stringed from its gums, dripping onto the dirt.

  Its companions flanked it. They clutched clubs made of gnarled oak, reinforced with bits of bone and sharp river stones. Crude weapons, but heavy enough to turn a skull into wet paste.

  The lead goblin looked at Mina’s limp form, held firmly by the ankle. With a grunt of bored contempt, it tossed her aside. Mina hit the base of a thick pine with a sickening thud. Her head lolled. She didn't make a sound.

  Liora’s jaw tightened. A small pulse hammered in her temple.

  Deep breaths, she told herself. Anger is a luxury. Precision is a requirement.

  She glanced back at the griffin. "Stay, girl. This is mine."

  The griffin’s golden eyes narrowed, but it settled into a crouch. It stayed.

  Liora stepped forward. She drew her obsidian daggers.

  The blades were fashioned from volcanic glass, blacker than a starless night and honed to an edge that divided the air itself.

  The forest seemed to grow quiet, as if the trees were holding their breath.

  A sudden chill swept through the clearing. It wasn't the wind. It was the aura of a predator who had forgotten how to feel fear.

  Liora kept walking. She stopped when she was inches from the yellow-skinned brute. It was twice her size, a mountain of foul-smelling muscle and matted hair.

  It towered over her, breathing hot, rancid air onto her forehead.

  Liora didn't flinch. She didn't even blink.

  The goblin roared and brought its club down in a vertical arc meant to crush her into the soil.

  Liora didn't retreat. She lunged in.

  She twisted her body mid-air, a controlled corkscrew that sent her rising past the descending wood.

  The wind of the strike ruffled her hair. She reached the apex of her leap, her face level with the monster's eyes.

  One motion, she thought.

  Slash.

  The obsidian blades hissed.

  Two black lines appeared across the goblin’s eyes. It didn't scream immediately—the cuts were too clean for the nerves to register.

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  Then the black, steaming blood sprayed. The creature shrieked, clutching its ruined face.

  Liora landed soft as a cat.

  A second club whistled toward her ribs from the side. She didn't turn to look. She knew the distance.

  She knew the speed.

  She dropped into a backflip, the jagged stones of the club passing through the space her chest had occupied a millisecond before.

  She hit the ground in a crouch, her eyes already locked on the third attacker.

  This one was the largest. It charged through the underbrush, snapping branches like dry tinder. It swung wildly, a desperate, broad sweep.

  Liora pivoted.

  She didn't dodge this time. She planted her lead foot and met the strike with the sole of her boot.

  The collision should have shattered her leg. Instead, a shockwave of displaced air erupted from the point of contact.

  The goblin’s arms jolted back, its momentum reversed by a force it couldn't understand. Its eyes went wide.

  Too slow, Liora thought.

  Her hand blurred. She flicked her wrist, releasing her right-hand dagger. The obsidian blade spun, a black streak against the green canopy.

  Thunk.

  The hilt quivered in the center of the goblin’s throat. The creature made a wet, bubbling sound, took two stumbling steps, and hit the dirt. Dead before it realized it had been hit.

  The second goblin—the one who had missed the sideways swing—was losing its mind.

  It couldn't see its target. It began beating the ground frantically, smashing the earth in a blind panic.

  Dust and dead leaves billowed up, creating a choking brown veil.

  The clubbing stopped. The goblin wheezed, its chest heaving as it scanned the dust. It swung its weapon once more to clear the air.

  Liora was standing right there.

  She hadn't moved. She hadn't been hit. She looked bored.

  The goblin’s throat constricted. It raised its club for one last, overhead gamble.

  Slash.

  Two wet thuds followed. The goblin’s hands, still gripping the club, fell into the dirt.

  It stared at the stumps of its wrists, blood geysering in rhythmic pulses.

  It turned to run, its primitive brain finally screaming the correct command.

  Liora was faster. She took three steps, vaulted off a protruding root, and landed on the creature's hunched shoulders.

  She wrapped an arm under its chin, jerking its head back to expose the neck.

  She leaned down, her lips brushing its pointed ear. "You chose the wrong girl to touch."

  She pulled the blade across. The resistance was minimal. The goblin’s legs gave out, and it collapsed into the mud.

  Silence returned.

  Liora straightened her tunic. She didn't look at the bodies. She looked at Mina.

  She raised her hand, palm open. The dagger embedded in the throat of the third goblin began to vibrate.

  With a metallic shirr, it pulled free and flew back to her, slapping into her palm with a practiced click.

  A roar echoed behind her.

  The first goblin—the blinded one—wasn't finished. Driven by scent and agony, it lunged. Its jaws were unhinged, reaching for the back of Liora’s neck.

  Liora didn't turn around. Her focus remained entirely on the girl by the tree. She saw Mina’s chest rise. Then fall. A slow, steady rhythm.

  The goblin’s shadow eclipsed her. Its teeth were inches from her flesh.

  Liora drove her dagger backward and upward in a blind, diagonal thrust.

  Crunch.

  The blade entered the roof of the goblin’s mouth and exited through the crown of its skull. The creature's momentum died instantly. It slumped against her heels, a heap of useless yellow meat.

  Liora let out a long, shuddering breath. The icy mask of the assassin crumbled. A small, genuine smile touched her lips—a look of profound, aching relief.

  "Thank God," she whispered.

  Mina was breathing. That was all that mattered.