He dropped without a sound.
The second turned at the disturbance, mouth opening to shout a warning. My other blade found his throat, and I was already moving past him before his body hit the ground.
It was easy. Too easy.
I’d almost forgotten how natural this felt—the weight of the blades in my hands, the way my body knew exactly where to step, how to twist, when to strike. Fighting wasn’t something I had to think about. It was something Iwas.
Beside me, Cindrissian was a blur of crimson and shadow, moving so fast he seemed to flicker in and out of existence. One moment he was there, the next he’d vanished into what lookedlike mere whips of wind, only to rematerialise behind an enemy with blood already on his blade.
A soldier lunged at me from the left. I ducked under his swing, drove my blade up through his jaw, and kicked his body away before the weight could drag me down.
Three more converged on my position. I let the first one get close, used his momentum against him to spin him into his companion. The third got my blade through his eye socket.
The cavern had dissolved into chaos—screaming, the clash of steel, the wet sounds of violence finding flesh.
I caught a glimpse of Lincatheron across the chamber, and the sight made me falter for half a heartbeat.
His power wasocean. Water erupted from nowhere, forming massive tendrils that moved with his will, crushing soldiers against walls or simply drowning them where they stood. It was beautiful and terrible, like watching the sea itself decide to wage war.
And Fenric’s power wasn’t anything I could categorise. Spikes of obsidian stone launched from his hands, from the ground around him, impaling enemies. Black crystal that seemed to drink in the lantern light, leaving only darkness in its wake.
They fought together, moving in that way warriors familiar with each other do. But there was something else, something I couldn’t quite identify. The way Lincatheron positioned himself, always keeping Fenric in his peripheral vision. The way Fenric’s attacks seemed calculated not just to kill, but to create openings for Lincatheron to exploit.
They moved like their entire purpose was protecting each other, not winning the battle itself.
I didn’t have time to riddle it out.
A soldier materialised in front of me, hands already glowing with the sickly green light of fire magic. He thrust his palms forward and a blast of flame roared toward my face.
I dropped and rolled, felt the heat singe the air where my head had been. The moonsilver daggers flashed as I came up inside his guard, one blade opening his femoral artery, the other finding his heart.
He collapsed, and I was already scanning the chamber.
My shadow fire stirred beneath my skin, eager and hungry. It would be so easy to unleash it, to let the cold flames tear through the remaining soldiers like they were kindling.
But the space was too confined. Too many ofoursmixed withtheirs. I couldn’t risk hitting Lincatheron or Fenric or Cindrissian in the chaos.
So I kept killing with the blades instead.
A soldier with a spear rushed me. I sidestepped, grabbed the shaft, used it to yank him off balance, and buried my dagger in the base of his skull.
Another came from behind. I sensed more than heard him, spun and caught his descending blade on my crossed daggers, twisted to disarm him, then opened his throat with a backhanded slash.
Easy. It was all so fucking easy.
And somewhere underneath the violence, underneath the familiar rhythm of death, a small voice whispered,This is what you were made for.
My eyes swept the cavern, cataloguing positions, threats, searching?—
Where was Varyth?
I’d heard his voice. Heard the chains. But I couldn’t see him yet, couldn’t find him among the chaos of bodies and shadows and flickering lantern light.
Another soldier charged. I dropped him without thinking, my gaze already moving past his falling corpse.
Where are you?
The moonsilver sang in my hands, blood making the hilts slick.
