He stands up, his movements stiff. He fastens his breeches with hands that are steady, though his knuckles are bruised. He reaches for his sword, which lies on the floor where he dropped it.
He looks at me.
"Get dressed," he says softly. I hurry to put on the ruined fabric of my clothes.
The door splinters. A jagged crack appears in the wood, revealing the flickering orange of torchlight beyond.
We have minutes left.
19
LORD IMAS
The iron door does not yield; it disintegrates.
Wood splinters and steel screams as the hinges are torn from the stone. The heavy barrier crashes inward, slamming against the floor with a violence that shakes the dust from the rafters.
I step in front of Leora.
I do not have my magic. I do not have the coiling shadows of The Serpent to weave into a shield, nor the chaotic whispers to warn me of the blow before it lands. I have only a notched blade of mundane steel and a body that is already failing me.
My shoulder burns where the stone sliced it. My legs are heavy, the muscles trembling from the exertion of the climb and the frantic, desperate act of love we just shared.
But my mind is clear.
I am facing death without the screaming cacophony of a god in my skull. There is only the sharp, acrid scent of burnt air—like lightning striking dry tinder—and the steady rhythm of my own mortality.
"Imas," Leora whispers behind me. I feel the heat of her back against mine, a fragile anchor in the storm.
"Stay down," I command softly.
Lord Malek steps through the ruined doorway.
He has always been a large man, but tonight, he is monstrous. The magic of The Warrior flows through him, a visible, shimmering aura of blood-red heat. It swells his muscles, turning his skin the color of gunmetal, and makes the veins in his neck bulge like cords of iron. He does not walk; he stalks, vibrating with the testosterone-fueled rage of his patron deity.
He holds a double-headed battle axe in one hand as easily as if it were a quill.
"Look at you," Malek sneers, his voice amplified by the magic until it rattles the shelves. "The Master of Night. Hiding in a closet with a whore."
He kicks a pile of books aside, clearing the space. His red eyes burn with triumph. He feeds on this—on the dominance, on the victory.
I raise my sword. My stance is perfect, the result of a Khuzuth education that demanded excellence in all things, even the physical arts I disdained. But against the raw, magical mass of him, I feel like a child holding a twig.
"She is not a whore," I say, my voice cold and steady. "And you are not a Lord, Malek. You are a rabid dog off his leash."
Malek laughs. It is a wet, ugly sound. "And yet, I am the one holding the axe. And you are the one holding... nothing."
He lunges.
He moves with a speed that shouldn't be possible for a creature of his size. The axe sweeps down, a blur of steel meant to cleave me in two.
I dodge. I do not try to block; the force would shatter my arm. I spin to the left, the wind of his swing ruffling my hair. I thrust my sword into the gap of his armor, aiming for the kidney.
The tip strikes true, but it skids off his skin.
The Warrior's blessing has turned his flesh to iron. My blade leaves only a thin, white scratch on his side.
Malek roars, backhanding me.
