The knife does not concern me anymore. Only my wrath for this Fae filth who thinks I will allow him to treat me this way. To scare me. To defile me. To think I will be compliant while he treats me like I’m nothing.
My knee lunges forward, striking him hard in his groin.
Modok’s eyes roll in his head as he keels over, grasping his crotch before stumbling backwards.
“And you won’t have a human tonight,” I spit.
Modok sucks in air as his men stand in silent disbelief. “You’ll die for that.”
“Are you going to keep threatening me or are you actually going to do something?”
The lightness of the laugh that follows mingled with my condescending grin is motivation enough for Modok to stand up straight, shrugging away any lingering pain I inflicted.
“You’re right,” he says. “No more threats.”
Modok charges for me, so agile and swift that I can not avoid his lunging hand when it grabs the back of the neck and throws me across the room. I manage to stay on my feet before crashing against the dresser, the hard wooden edge slamming into my lower back. I grimace, the pain searing through my muscles.Modok twists his dagger in his hand then charges across the room, this time grabbing me by my hair and pulling so hard I cry out. But no one can hear me.
Through wincing eyes, I see the shimmering veil of the Mor’Thravar barrier spell holding strong.
Modok’s grip tightens in my hair, yanking my head back so sharply that a gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it. The pain shoots through my scalp, and I feel the hot sting of tears welling up, but I refuse to let them fall. My breath catches as he brings the blade to my throat, the cold steel pressing against my skin. I can feel the point of the dagger, sharp and unforgiving, as it slides along my neck. The pressure increases, and I know he’s not bluffing.
“Is this better?” he snarls, his stinking, hot breath dampening my cheek. “Is this how human girls like to be treated?”
My body burns with rage, my eyes glare at him with cold defiance, and I hiss through my teeth before spitting in Modok’s face. The Fae lord flushes with anger as his mouth curls and when he presses his dagger harder, a thin line of crimson erupts where the blade breaks my skin, the warm trickle of blood tracing its path.
“No. I don’t think I’ll take you to Mor’Thravar,” Modok says in his gravel tone. “I think instead I’ll leave your bloody body right here for Daedalus to find. But not before I have ruined it.”
I grip the dresser, my fingers feeling over the smooth wood until I clutch the sharp edges of the emerald comb. I curl my fist around it until the hard jewels dig into my palm and then, with a swift strike, I sling my arm at Modok, burying the long tines in the side of his neck.
Blood spurts from the wound, splattering across my face, but the claret in my eyes does not prevent me from watching gleefully as his mouth falls open and his face contorts. Modok releases my hair and staggers backwards, his blade danglingfrom his shaking hand while the emerald comb juts out from his neck. His watery eyes flicker, his earlier malice replaced by shock, and when he almost collapses, his men rush to keep him on his feet.
“Kill her,” Modok sputters in shallow rasps. “Now!”
His men reach for the daggers sheathed at their waists as they stalk cautiously towards me. It should be a compliment how weary they are to engage me—a disgusting human—but I’m too concerned about staying alive right now to be flattered. After all, there are four of them and one of me, and I seem to be out of emerald combs.
I take a step back until I’m hard against the dresser. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape my ribcage while fear coils tight in my stomach. A sense of dread overcomes me as the men come closer. No. This can’t be how it ends. If I must die, I want it to be with soil between my toes and sunlight on my face. A quivering breath escapes my throat. And I do not want to be alone.
Without his men keeping him on his feet, Modok stumbles backwards as blood continues to gush from his neck. He grits his teeth and howls as he yanks the comb free and tosses it to the ground, then presses his hand over the wound. Modok’s eyes are hazy, the color drained from his skin and I notice as he weakens, so does the barrier surrounding us. The flickers of light begin to dull, and the shimmering wall that was once so clear fades in and out of sight. If there is a moment to save myself, it is now.
“Daedalus!” I scream.
At first the Mor’Thravar are unconcerned, not realizing their lord’s power is waning.
But then suddenly at the arch he appears, his black wings spread so wide they block out the moonlight, his chest heaving with ragged breath, the storm of his gray eyes sending tendrils of smoke weaving through the air.
Daed looks at me, his hair wet with rain and clinging to the sharp angles of his face. His gaze settles on the streak of blood across my neck and then the torn remnants of my nightdress.
The room turns ice cold.
His jaw clenches and his upper lip draws back to reveal his canines. Daed extends his hand and Death Singer manifests in a cloud of black smoke. His chin drops and a breath lodges in my throat as I watch in awe as the rune tattoos that map his body glow and pulsate, but when Daed lifts his head, his eyes are now solid black.
He clasps two hands around the silver hilt of Death Singer and it hums with energy, the moonstone at its center gleaming like a shard of some ancient star. Daed slashes at what remains of the barrier, slicing through the veiled curtain of magic until it vanishes completely.
With a deep, all-consuming roar that shakes the very stones beneath us, he charges at the Mor’Thravar brethren, his wings snapping open wider with a thunderous crack. Black sentient smoke surges around him, twisting into tendrils that lash out, grabbing the nearest adversary and yanking him off his feet. Daed’s sword is a blur of silver light, slicing through the air with deadly precision. The first of Modok’s men barely has time to scream before the blade cleaves him in two, his body crumpling to the ground as smoke pulls him into the abyss.
Before the others can react, Daed vanishes in a swirl of dark smoke, void walking across the room with a speed that leaves them stumbling in confusion. He reappears behind the second foe, the dark mist still clinging to him like a living thing. His sword arcs through the air, a streak of silver that finds its mark in the Mor’Thravar henchman’s back. The man falls without a sound, his lifeless body hitting the ground just as the smoke envelops him, swallowing him whole.
The remaining two adversaries turn to face him, terror etched on their faces. They exchange knowing looks before wearily thrusting their hands forward. The charcoal runes tattooed on their palms glow and pulsate, and a wall of shimmering light materializes between them and their Mordorin prince.
