The voice came from behind you, urgent and commanding. Then a blur of red and green tackled you from the side, sending you both crashing to the ground just as a chunk of masonry slammed into the spot where you'd been standing.

You blinked. Above you hovered a face—young, sharp-jawed, with a streak of blond hair falling across blue eyes burning with intensity. He was wearing a hood. A quiver strapped to his back. An arrow clutched in one gloved hand.

He gave you a once-over, eyes scanning for injuries. His grip on your shoulder wasn't painful, but it was anchoring—like he needed to make sure you were still solid.

Behind him, the smoke was thickening. Another explosion rocked the street. His jaw tightened, and you caught the split-second calculus in his eyes—stay with you, or go to the fight.