I’m in a tent, lit by what seems to be a flickering lantern. Why am I in a tent?

When I turn my head to the left, I see Martin there beside me, breathing quietly as he sleeps. Someone cleaned him up and covered him with a blanket of some sort. He’s all tucked in, innocent like a kid.

Is this a dream?

Then I hear Peter and Leon talking over each other.

“She is awake—”

“Lynea—”

I barely have time to look up and see them when a woman with warm brown skin, long black hair, and pointed ears comes rushing in. She takes my face in her hands and turns me toward her. Our eyes meet and she says, “Queen Eliana. Is there any pain?”

Pain? I try to pay attention to my ribs, my previously gripped midsection, and take a deep breath. Nothing. No pain. The power of magic, probably, again. I thank the universe for taking pity on me, for putting me in a world where at least the dangers are offset by deus-ex-machina levels of healing. And elves apparently.

“No.” I take another test breath, but still there is nothing to report. Lynea releases my face gently. “How did you find us?” My voice comes out rough, from sleep or what, I don’t know. “Is Martin okay?”

“He is alright, my queen,” Miri says flatly. I look to the right and see her crouched outside the entrance to the tent, a tense frown on her freckled face. Whatever performance she had been putting on before today’s events has long since died, leaving in its place an unhappy stranger. But I don’t care about that. And I don’t trust her—not really. With the creaky turn of my head, I finally glance around the rest of the small space and spot Peter and Leon sitting by my feet, crowded close together. They’ve changed clothes, it seems, and are no longer bloodied or dirty. Leon looks clearly relieved, giving me a worried little smile that barely dimples his cheeks, and Peter is staring down at the ground absently, his mouth pressed into a pained line. What happened after I . . . ?

Lynea’s airy voice pulls my attention back to her and her calm look of concern. “We had been observing the orcs for some time. Their mutiny from their war chief was a matter of concern for us, as we live nearby.” She bows her head slightly. “But that is unimportant now. I am honored to meet you, Your Majesty. Your words touched my people, and we could not sit by when we saw your life was in danger.”

My . . . words? So my shitty speech actually did something? Fucking hell, man.

“The honor is mine,” I manage to reply, forcing the words from my dry lips. “We’re indebted to you. What happened to the orcs?”

“Dead,” Peter says.

My eyes flick to him, but he’s still looking down. “Even Jacques?” I don’t know why I ask, but I do.

Peter shakes his head, and his voice comes out strained when he says, “Yes. Loose ends.”

For Ward? I realize the truth of it now. Orcs are supposed to be allied with Ward. Rogue orcs could cause political problems for them. “Jacques just wanted to be free from human influence,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

Did Peter consider them friends?

From the way Peter rolls his eyes in an exaggerated way, I’m guessing no, but then Leon cuts in before he can say anything. “Your pure heart is most kind, Eliana, but those orcs intended to cause us harm. We lost your stagecoach, guards, horses, your coachman—they did not plan to spare us. They likely would have kidnapped you for ransom; there was no negotiating with them.”

I’m not sure if I agree—even the look on Peter’s face shows his own doubts for a moment—but it’s too late to debate that now. Still, it feels needless, their deaths, though I suppose fighting in that way can only lead to one terrible outcome. My eyes travel back down to Martin’s resting form, and I’m reminded of what matters: He lived. We lived. The people whose faces I can put names to all lived. There’s that. I have that.

In the face of death, all I’ve learned about myself is that I’m selfish; I won’t cry for the guards who died, the stagecoach driver, the orcs. And though I’m grateful to be alive, at least here, in this world, more than that, I feel overwhelming relief that Leon, Peter, and Martin all have survived. That’s all that truly matters to me.

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I never realized how selfish I truly am. But it is what it is.

The next few hours involve Lynea and the others coming in and out of the tent, insisting I continue to lie there like a corpse while I recover, no matter how much I insist I’m fine. A few other elves stop by with curious stares and the excuse of bringing food and water, and the way they all look at me makes me feel awkward, like I’m some kind of bizarre savior when really I didn’t do shit. I return their gratefulness with my own, thanking them for each bite of bread, each sip of tea. Unfortunately, that just seems to make them revere me even more, and I eventually become so uncomfortable that I start refusing food.

Through the thin walls of the tent, I watch a day pass us by, and I begin to once again dread the upcoming journey that we’ve still yet to complete. When night falls, I find myself alone once more, laying by Martin’s side while the others reorganize what’s left of our things and whisper by a crackling fire, close enough for me to feel its warmth and listen to the water boiling. (More tea, no doubt. Elves love tea apparently.) When the others begin to head to bed, Peter stops in one last time to insist that Martin and I join him in his stagecoach from now on, and Miri lends me some of her clothes, though they’re a bit small. She drops them off without a word. So much for packing an outfit that will impress the rulers of Ward. Now I’m gonna look like a fucking maid.

Whatever. It’s not like it matters.

Instead, I focus on Martin. In the quiet of the night, I feel safe enough to turn toward him, my fingers finding their way through his hair as he rests. I kept him alive. Me. I did that. I did something. I run my thumb along his cheek, across the rough stubble that has grown out along his jaw. I kept that idiot alive.

He looks perfectly fine now, and I’m starting to get a bit peeved with his little Sleeping Beauty act when finally his eyelids flutter ever so slightly. I freeze, my hand still on his face.

“Martin?”

Then his green eyes open, bleary, gleaming, and tired in the lamplight. He seems to look around for a moment, clearly dazed. “What happened?”

What happened?

I draw my hand back then slap it down on his shoulder as a surge of annoyance passes through me. “Bitch, you almost died!”

He starts, letting out a little surprised grunt, then frowns at me, his eyes finally focusing on mine. “Do not call me a bitch.”

I huff. “Why didn’t you teleport us when the freakin’ orcs showed up? What the hell was that?”

He brings a hand to his head, sighs. A bit of dark hair falls into his face, then he pushes it away, grumbling, “Why didn’t I . . . ? Because the orc would have teleported with us anywhere we went, and I figured we could reason with them.” As he seems to recall all that transpired, his eyes widen slightly, and he reaches out to grip my arm. “Are you injured?”

That dummy. “No,” I snap. “Just traumatized by violence, but who cares about that right now! You can’t do shit like that again! I thought you were dead, that I was dead, that we’d all die. I need you conscious, bro. At all times.” I pout at him. “You’re supposed to be the teleportation guy, so fucking act like it!”

Then he does something that confuses me. He laughs. He laughs like this is all really fucking funny. His laugh is gravelly, tired, but genuine. And then he stops to say, “I am glad you are alright.” His hold on my arm loosens, and he looks up at me with a dreamy, sleepy smile that turns his normally scowling face almost peaceful. “You will have to inform me on all that has transpired. But . . . later. I think I need more rest.” His gaze feels warm, though weak, and I watch as he struggles to keep his eyes open.

So I do what comes naturally. I lay down beside him, snuggled close, between his arm and his body, and he makes no move to dislodge me from where I’ve nestled. His hand curls around me ever so slightly. “I was worried,” I complain quietly.

“I know,” he murmurs back. His head lolls over toward mine, his nose brushing against my cheek. His warm, soft breaths are like a lullaby painted across my skin, and once again I’m just so glad he’s okay. The heat of his body is a salve, and the fact that he lives is a comfort I didn’t know I needed so desperately. This is nice, I think, and I let out an involuntary sigh as I feel exhaustion begin to blanket over me as well. Right as I’m drifting off, he adds, “You should not lay this close,” and shifts a bit.

I sigh and roll back a ways to put space between us. With my eyes still half-closed, I peer over at his relaxed form. “Even in your delirium, you still say annoyingly sensible shit.”

He chuckles warmly, his hand finding mine for a gentle squeeze. I don’t want to let go, but he does, and rolls over, turning his back to me. “It is my job.”

Before I can respond, I hear his quiet snores and realize that he is, once more, out like a light. Fuckin’ idiot. I smile to myself then catch myself smiling and stop. Things aren’t good right now—I shouldn’t be cheesing about anything. I pull the blanket Lynea left me over my shoulders and curl in on myself. Things aren’t good at all.

We got lucky. We got so fucking lucky. And in a game of chance, you are guaranteed nothing.

But I fall sleep anyway, dreaming of horrible things.

Of Jacques’ face, of Jacques dead. Of all of them dead—the guards, the orcs, Martin, Leon, Peter, Miri, even the horses. Trix’s body is there too, somehow, and Angelina Jolie, for some reason, all collapsed in black puddles across the wartorn plain. When I glance up at the sky, I see a hazy blood moon—the Earth’s moon—and when I look back down, I realize there is a sword through my middle, leaking red. I turn to search for whoever’s holding the blade, but when I do, I find no one is there.