“Down,” Thorne shouted out. I dropped before I heard the first arrow hit. It thunked into the doorframe and quivered, shaft black, fletching dark red. The stink of wolfsbane burned my eyes.
“Windows,” Hayden whispered.
“Too late,” I said. Shadows unpeeled from the treeline. Rogues. Not wild, not starving, but paid rogues, out for blood. Their movements were disciplined, too clean for true strays. Darkspire touched everything it bought.
“Back wall,” Thorne said, as he made a move. I grabbed the knives from the table. One for my hand. One for my boot. The third I tossed to Hayden. He fumbled and almost dropped it. But he recovered the knife with a clatter that told the forest exactly where we were.
“Quiet,” I hissed. Another arrow punched through the window and buried itself in the books
