Bennen, as a practitioner of plant-focused nature magic, used sunlight for fuel the same way his greenery did—and yet, he often did his best work in the shadows.

Out on the main street, the fight between Daivad and Kure Ubika raged. From the way each strike made the ground tremble, made Ben’s bones rattle, made the night go silent with sound, he could imagine the Dark Mother herself was sitting out on that street, pounding out a brutal beat with her fists like the earth was her drum. But Ben knew his talents would best be utilized from this dark crevice in an empty alley.

He stood completely Still, the base of his staff planted between his boots, connecting him to the earth and all the surface roots he’d sent out while he’d been watching Kure, waiting for Daivad to fetch his stone. Through those roots, he felt the heat off the cobblestones warmed by the fires that had been started, felt the vibrations of the heavy boots and metal greaves that chased after the destruction, and felt every time Daivad sank his magic into the earth to raise it up or split it apart.

Daivad’s magic nudged Ben’s. Ben nudged back.

He knew what Daivad needed, and it took little effort to grow his roots into thin vines and send them whipping around those metal greaves. The clatter as each guard fell reverberated down through the ground, and Ben quickly sent up a few more vines—to lash around the guards’ wrists before they could go for their swords. And then to wrap tight around that exposed part of their neck, just above the chest plate.

The Colonel called this tactic cowardly. Dishonorable.

“Our actions name us Soldiers, not Assassins, Bennen. We see the faces of our enemies, and let them see ours! It’s in honoring our enemy that we honor ourselves, and the land we walk and the people we defend. You shame yourself by hiding! You shame the brothers fighting with you!”

He could still hear the Colonel’s voice like the man stood right in front of him. Over him, actually, because it felt like Ben was once again a boy of ten, unable to argue, unable to explain himself.

And then, a young Daivad next to him, eyes like ice and tone just as cold, speaking up despite the fact that he took much worse from the Colonel without so much as blinking. “Protecting your brothers by fighting smart—I’d name that Honorable.”

Ben doubted Daivad remembered saying that. He knew it had been a throwaway comment, nothing more than a way to irk the Colonel so he’d pick on Daivad instead of Ben. Maybe Daivad hadn’t even meant the words. But Ben had repeated them to himself a million times since, for some twenty years.

Combat magic had never been Ben’s strong suit—he left that to Daivad and Tobei for the most part. And if he were to step into the open and face down the dozens of guards on the street, he’d be dead within minutes and Daivad would have an entire city against him. Worse than that—Daivad would be alone.

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Ben would not leave his brother alone, no matter how pissed at him he was.

Daivad was leading Kure east, toward the city gate. Good—the moment Daivad took out Kure, he’d need an exit. Ben just needed to buy him enough time, and then hopefully make his own way there.

The guards on the street had learned enough to draw their swords preemptively now, and the moment one of his vines snagged at them, they slashed and hacked—one of them even tried to shoot their way free, and they succeeded, but also managed to shoot themself in the foot in the process.

And there was only so far Ben’s magic could stretch, and as the fighting pair moved ever closer to the East Gate, several of the guards slipped past and made it out of Ben’s range, scrambling after Daivad and Kure.

“Found ‘em!”

Ben’s staff jerked in his hands and Ben was yanked back into his own body so abruptly that for a moment he lost himself. He’d been so focused on his magic, on becoming the plants he wove, that he hadn’t even heard the two guards rushing toward him.

The guard again tried to jerk the staff from Ben’s hands, and would have managed it if little green tendrils hadn’t been wrapping themselves lovingly around and around the hands of their creator, all but fusing the staff in his hands.

The next time the guard yanked, Ben shoved his staff forward, into their helmet, sending them stumbling back with a clank.

Immediately, the other’s sword was at his throat, but Ben knocked it aside and brought the base of his staff into their head as well. He shook off the tendrils fusing his fingers to the staff as he stepped out of his crevice so he could twirl it in his hands.

Protected by their armor, the guards recovered immediately. “A traitor’s stick against Lushalen steel?” one snarled—and they slashed.

Ben’s reply was simply to deflect their swords, feint one way to get them to shift their weight, then swat a leg out from under the one to his right, bringing them crashing into the other. He took the second he had to Still himself, to call up his magic and send it through his staff. Two enormous, bright purple barbs burst from the staff’s gnarled head, and when the guards lunged once again, Ben slashed just above the greaves of one, and just under the helmet of the other.

To them, it felt like nothing more than getting caught on a rose’s stem, Ben knew from experience. But before they could raise their swords once more, that “Lushalen steel” was clattering to the cobblestone. The guards went stiff, joints locking up. Their faces spasmed uncontrollably, and their eyes rolled back in their heads before they finally swayed, then tipped.

Combat magic wasn’t Ben’s strong suit. But that didn’t mean he was bad at it.

He slipped away as they crashed to the ground, only to be faced with more guards gathering at the mouth of the alley.

One guard raised their weapon, and Ben’s gaze locked onto the barrel of the rifle. There was no hiding from this. The barrel flashed, and Ben’s body jerked.