Ivan's boots were heavy on the wet stone as the alley bent, he nearly slammed into a wall taking the turn. He looked back and he could see Natasha moving through the shadows.

  He crashed through a hanging line of laundry, wet cloth slapping his face and tangling around his arms. He tore free and kept moving.

  Ivan grabbed the edge of a stall and pushed his shoulder into it, sending the whole thing crashing to the ground. He turned and started running again.

  Behind him, a soft “Hup!” and the click of Natasha’s heels as she easily cleared the stall.

  Another corner. His shoulder hit the wall and pain shot down into his fingertips, but he pushed off and kept his legs moving. Fly Catcher bobbed beside his head, golden text scratching into existence and dispersing before Ivan could read a single word of it.

  A stack of crates blocked half the alley ahead. Ivan grabbed the top one and shoved it as he passed, he heard it crash to the ground behind him. But again she cleared it with ease and closed the distance between them even more.

  Ivan's foot caught on something and he stumbled forward, arms pinwheeling, the stone nearly flying from his grip.

  Behind him, Natasha's footsteps were right there. Right behind him. Close enough that he could hear her breathing… She was calm, easy, and amused.

  Ivan grabbed a barrel and shoved it into the alley behind him. Heard it shatter. Heard her boots land on the other side of where it had been.

  Ivan followed the twisting alley, his shoulder scraping against rough stone. Fly Catcher kept pace, its golden script useless, its presence a constant reminder that he had magic and couldn't use it.

  Another turn. His legs were screaming. His cramp was a knife in his side. His burned hand had gone from pain to numbness and that was probably bad but he couldn't think about it now, couldn't think about anything except—

  He had run into a dead end, slamming into a wall… Ivan pressed his back against the wall and he slid down it slightly before catching himself.

  Natasha walked around the corner.

  She wasn't even winded. Her dark coat hung perfectly still around her shoulders, her blade catching the last light from the sky overhead, and her smile was the same one she'd worn in the shop.

  She stopped maybe twenty feet away. Tilted her head.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "Well," she said.

  His hand found the hilt of his dagger and he pulled it with his free hand while pressing the stone against his stomach with the burned one. His outstretched blade shook.

  "You are definitely no Pendragon." She laughed.

  "Yeah, well…" Ivan's voice came out as a croak. "Jury's still out on that one."

  "You are no knight." She took a step forward. "Not a soldier. Not even a trained fighter, from what I observed in that pathetic little shop."

  "I prefer the term 'combat-impotence.'"

  "So why?" Natasha asked. She stopped again, her head still tilted with curiosity. "Why run? Why take the stone? When you could have simply given it to me and walked away alive?"

  "I'm just buying as much time as I can," Ivan said.

  Natasha blinked. Her smile flickered.

  "Buying time," she repeated. "For what, exactly? Your little friend back at the shop? The Nephilim girl who couldn't even defend herself against a pawnbroker?" She took another step forward.

  "That is not bravery," she said.

  Ivan swallowed.

  "It is only stupidity."

  She lunged at him.

  Ivan brought the dagger up in a clumsy attempt to block that he knew wouldn't work, and Natasha's blade came down toward his throat in a vicious sweep, aimed to take his life—

  Golden light exploded across his vision.

  The impact never came.

  Ivan's eyes, which he had pinched shut, were now cracked open to find a blade of pure golden light crossed with Natasha's less than an inch from his throat.

  The man holding the blade had long black hair, tied back but flowing past his shoulders. His golden eyes reflected the light of his own weapon. His knight's armor was emblazoned with a crest that Ivan had never seen before.

  The pressure in the alley changed. Natasha's blade trembled against the golden light, her arm straining, her feet sliding slightly on the cobblestones.

  "Sir Arthur," she said. "I did not expect the Sword of Obafemi to involve himself in the business of slum rats. How unfortunate..."

  "Surrender your weapon and submit to questioning. You will be treated fairly under the laws of—"

  "Another time, I think."

  Natasha moved. One moment she was there, blade locked against Arthur's light, and the next she was , vanishing into the shadows. Arthur's golden blade swept through the space where she'd been and found nothing but air.

  For a moment, the knight stood still, his weapon raised, his eyes scanning the darkness. Then the blade of light flickered and died, leaving the alley in shadows.

  Ivan slid down the wall until his ass hit the cold stone, his burned hand still clutching the stone to his chest, his other hand still holding the silver dagger that he'd never even gotten close to using. And he couldn't seem to stop shaking.

  "You are injured."

  Ivan looked up to find Arthur standing over him. "The stone," Ivan managed. His voice came out as a wheeze. "It burns. I-It… I couldn't let go… my hand—"

  Arthur's eyes moved to Ivan's fist, to the red glow bleeding between his locked fingers, to the blistered and weeping skin visible around the edges.

  "You were protecting that stone."

  "I was—" Ivan swallowed. "I was buying time. For my friend. She's… back at the shop, there was a fire, and there's a guy who got stabbed, and I just… I grabbed the stone and I ran because that crazy bitch with the knife was going to kill everyone and I thought if I-I… if she chased me instead—"

  He was rambling. He knew he was rambling. The words were just spilling out of his mouth, and he couldn’t control it.

  "—I thought I could buy them time."

  The man looked at him. Then he knelt, one knee on the road, bringing himself down to Ivan's level.

  "My name is Arthur," the man said. "Knight of the Royal Guard, sworn to the House of Obafemi. I was nearby and followed the smoke."

  Ivan's head tipped back against the wall. His eyes stung. His throat was tight.

  "Ivan," he managed. "Ivan Tepes. I'm nobody."

  "You drew her away," Arthur said. "To save the others, quite noble of you."

  "I… yeah." Ivan's laugh came out as a wet cough.

  Arthur stood and extended a hand. Ivan stared at it for a moment, not quite processing what it meant, before reaching up with his dagger hand and letting the knight pull him to his feet.

  "The shop," Ivan said. "Rory, she's still there. With the fire. And Brom. The pawnbroker. He was… Natasha cut him up pretty bad and I don't know if—"

  Arthur's golden eyes studied his shaking legs, the burned hand, the stone clutched to his chest like a lifeline. Whatever conclusions he drew stayed behind his expressionless mask.

  "Can you walk?"

  Ivan tested his legs. They held. Barely.

  "I think so."

  Ivan pushed himself off the wall and took one shaky step forward. Then another. His hand was still locked around the stone, and now that the adrenaline was fading, the pain was coming back, a deep, throbbing ache that radiated from his palm up through his wrist and into his forearm.

  He started walking, and Ivan followed, his legs threatening to give out with every step, the stone burning against his hand. Beside him, Fly Catcher began writing in the golden script… and this time, he could finally read it.

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