I relish every tear in muscle, every crack of busted joints.
Shadows and Death magic slash and choke like they have a mind of their own.
A second Caelorian barrels toward me, sword wreathed in blue aether.
He swings wide—too wide.
I catch his wrist mid-arc and twist until bone gives way with a wet crack. His blade falls; I drive it back through his chest, shadows following it like loyal hounds. The light in his eyes flickers out before the weapon hits the ground.
Another lunges from behind. I pivot, low and fast. My elbow crushes his visor; my shadow snakes through the gap and detonates inside his helm. He collapses, helmet smoking, nothing left of his face but dust and regret.
A third comes screaming prayers to forgotten gods. I answer with my own—steel and inevitability. My sword cleaves him clean, the cut so fast it takes a heartbeat for the blood to remember what it’s meant to do.
I barely pause. The battlefield obeys: a breath, a strike, a death.
Ronyn fires from my flank, arrows streaking silver where my shadows don’t reach.
Seren’s bolts find their mark as she dips and weaves through the center of our unit.
Teddy wades through the carnage like a tidebreaker, axe rising and falling in brutal percussion. Always at my flank. Always guarding my back.
Jax harnesses my magic, spinning shadows into spears of onyx that cleave through armor.
But it’s my Starbound who steals the breath from my lungs.
Arresting in her power.
Elyssara moves behind us, her Lightborne magic sweeping in arcs that obliterate lines of soldiers at a time, every motion half-grace, half-cataclysm.
We move as one unit—undeniable, indomitable.
A single, terrible choreography written by war and the Stars that demanded it.
The castle grounds tremble beneath our rhythm.
And still, the tide keeps coming.
The wall of fire still holds the bridge—the soldiers from the west held behind it.
“More from the south!” Teddy yells, his Aetherstride abilities hearing something I don’t.
Fuck.
“Duskae!” she shouts, voice cracking through the din. “More!”
I feel her through the tether—heat, fury, devotion.
Fire dances with Starlight at her hands, before it erupts in a blaze of fury.
She doesn’t stop.
Not until lines of soldiers fall to their knees, consumed by the wrath of a woman born to remake realms.
“Holy fucking Stars, El,” Seren breathes from behind her, as hundreds, if not a thousand, men blaze to their deaths.
“Tarrakai is getting a bit antsy,” Ronyn grunts as the taut snap of bowstring releases with unerring accuracy. “He… is hungry.”
“Not yet!” I growl.
