Their captain steps forward—tall, pale, with silver hair pulled back in a warrior's knot. His smile is a predator's expression, all teeth and promised violence.
“I am Captain Morwulf, and I am here to take you into custody,” Morwulf says, “And you my fine lady,” he grins at Forla, “Up the ass.”
"Go fuck yourself," I snarl, my hand moving to my sword. The familiar weight of steel soothes the rage building in my chest.
"Charming. I can see why the arena crowds found you... disappointing." Morwulf's smile widens. "No matter. We'll break that spirit again soon enough."
The Dark Elves spread out in practiced formation, cutting off our escape routes. Magic begins to gather around their hands—crackling energy that makes the air taste of copper and ash. I've seen this before. They mean to take us alive, break us slowly.
Not happening.
"Take them," Morwulf commands.
Everything explodes into motion.
I draw my sword as the first Dark Elf closes with me, his curved blade whistling through the air. I sidestep, letting his momentum carry him past, then drive my pommel into the base of his skull. He drops like a stone.
To my left, a Dark Elf lunges at Forla, clearly assuming she's the weak link. But she's not the terrified slave who once hid in barns anymore. She drops, rolls, and comes up with a knife, driving it up under his ribs with surgical precision.
Pride surges through me even as I parry another strike. My woman—my fierce, beautiful woman—has become a warrior.
Rophan wades into the melee like a gravitational force of nature, his fists crushing bone and tearing through Dark Elf armor. We fight back-to-back, our combined fury keeping three enemies at bay. But it's Nazim who truly terrifies—his grief has transformed him into something primal, his claws tearing through armor like parchment.
A Dark Elf tries to flank me while I'm engaged with another. I duck under his swing and drive my elbow into his solar plexus, doubling him over. My knee meets his descending face with a wet crunch.
"The woman!" Morwulf shouts, dark magic gathering around his fingers as he targets Forla. "She's?—"
Rage explodes through me. I grab a fallen dagger and hurl it with all my strength. It takes him in the shoulder, spinning him around and sending his spell wild. The magic scorches stone instead of flesh.
"Touch her and die," I roar, advancing on the Dark Elf lieutenant with murder in my eyes.
Morwulf snarls, pulling the blade free and letting his own blood drip onto the ground. Where it touches stone, shadows writhe and grow. "You'll all burn like the serpents."
But we're beyond fear now. I've seen what they do to prisoners, what they did to Nazim's people. There's no surrender here—only victory or death.
I see Forla throw her knife at the last Dark Elf trying to flank Rophan. Her aim isn't perfect—she's no trained warrior—but it strikes his thigh and sends him stumbling into the minotaur's reach. Rophan's hands close around the elf's head with a wet crack.
Morwulf finds himself alone, bleeding, surrounded by the corpses of his squad. His pale face has gone ashen, but his eyes still burn with fanatic hatred.
"Nothing but a bunch of dirty ass freaks," he snarls.
Nazim's claws take his head clean off. Captain Morwulf's body topples backward, blood fountaining from the severed neck.
Silence falls over the harbor, broken only by the crackling of the burning ship and the distant cries of seabirds. I stand among the bodies, adrenaline still coursing through my veins, and immediately check on Forla.
She stands among the corpses, her hands shaking now that the battle's over, dark blood staining her clothes and skin. But she's alive. She's whole.
"Forla." My voice comes out softer than intended. "Are you hurt?"
She looks down at herself—cuts, bruises, someone else's blood. "I'm alive."
"You fought like a warrior," Rophan says, and there's genuine respect in his voice. "Well done."
My chest swells with pride. She's come so far from the frightened woman who nursed my wounds in that barn. Now she stands among fallen enemies, bloodied but unbroken.
But Nazim stares at the burning ship, grief etched into every line of his serpentine features. "They died because they helped us."
"They died because Dark Elves are monsters," Forla says firmly. "Their blood is on our enemies' hands, not ours."
