Imas lowers the sword an inch, but he does not relax. "Report."
"The gate is breached," Asema chokes out, sliding down the wall until she is sitting in a pool of her own blood. "Malek... he didn't just bring soldiers. He bought the House Guard."
She looks up at Imas, her expression twisting into a rictus of despair.
"They turned," she whispers. "Your own men. As soon as the wards fell... as soon as they felt your magic die... they opened the doors for him."
A sound comes from the top of the stairs—the heavy, rhythmic tramp of boots. Dozens of them. And beneath the sound of marching feet, a low, buzzing hum that makes the teeth in my head ache.
Magic.
"They are coming," Asema rasps, trying to stand and failing. "And they are bringing the war beasts."
17
LORD IMAS
The sword in my hand is dead weight. It does not sing to me like the chaos once did. It is a crude bar of steel, indifferent to my will, demanding muscle and sweat where once a thought would have sufficed.
I swing it anyway.
The blade bites into the gap between a traitor's helm and pauldron, severing the leather strap. Blood sprays, hot and startlingly bright against the gray stone of the corridor. The guard crumples, choking on his own life.
I step over the body, my breath sawing in my lungs. My shoulder burns where the falling debris sliced me, a steady, throbbing reminder of my own mortality. Every parry jars my bones. Every block sends a shockwave of pain up my arm.
"Move," I rasp, grabbing Leora’s wrist with my free hand.
She stumbles after me, her face pale beneath the grime of the explosion. Asema brings up the rear, limping but lethal, her sword a blur of steel as she dispatches a guard who tries to flank us.
We are fighting our way up from the belly of the estate, climbing toward the surface like sinners clawing their way outof hell. The air is choked with dust and the sounds of slaughter—the clash of metal, the screams of dying men, and the low, guttural roar of the war beasts tearing through the upper levels.
I do not have time to think. I do not have time to mourn the loss of my god. I have only the immediate, brutal necessity of keeping the woman beside me alive.
We reach the landing of the second level. The corridor ahead is narrow, lined with tapestries that are now burning, the flames licking at the ceiling. Smoke billows toward us, thick and acrid.
Through the haze, three figures emerge.
They are House Guard. My dark elves. Men I paid, men I fed, men who swore oaths on their own blood. Now, they wear armbands of yellow cloth—Malek’s color.
"Lord Imas," the leader sneers, raising a heavy mace. "Or should I say,DfamImas?"
Rage flares in my chest, but it is a cold, impotent thing without magic to fuel it. I tighten my grip on the sword. I am faster than them. I am more skilled. But I am tired, and I am bleeding, and there are three of them.
"Traitor," I spit.
I lunge.
The leader swings the mace. I duck under the arc, slashing at his knee. He howls, stumbling, but the second guard is already moving, thrusting a spear toward my chest.
I twist, parrying the blow, but the force of it knocks me off balance. I stagger back, my boot slipping on a patch of blood.
The third guard sees the opening. He steps forward, raising a short sword, aiming for my exposed neck.
“My Lord!” The chorus of yells tells my body to move, but I cannot.
I cannot block it. My sword is out of position. My weight is wrong.
I see the steel descending. I see the grim satisfaction in the guard’s eyes.
