Soldiers swarm between us, but they’re already dead. My sword is a storm, hacking through armor, severing limbs, spilling guts onto the stones of Kryntar Castle. I cut with no mercy, no hesitation—only the savage promise that every man who stands before me and her will bleed for it.
One lunges for her flank, but I’m faster—my blade carves through his neck, spraying red across her face. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at him fall. Her eyes are fixed ahead, on the serpent who waits—no,hides—behind her unit.
Vessira.
I carve harder, faster, every strike driving us forward, her steps falling in time with mine. We are two halves of the same fury, bearing down on the woman who scarred her, who thought she could break her.
The Marked close ranks, but I cleave them open, leaving a trail of broken bodies in our wake. Blood slicks the stones, my arms scream from the strain, but I don’t stop—Iwon’tstop until I’ve given her what she deserves.
Then I see her.
Vessira stands waiting in the sliver of moonlight that cuts through the rip overhead, blades dripping, eyes alight with cruel anticipation.
Elyssara moves past me, radiant in her ruin, her scars bared like holy scripture. I keep the soldiers at bay, cutting them down with brutal efficiency as she closes the distance. Morrathyswields my shadows like he’s commanding a unit—organized, lethal, final—and it stops soldiers from charging us within a heartbeat.
This is her moment.
Her wrath ignites, bright and terrible, a holy fire Maldrak—no one—could ever command.
Elyssara’s breath rasps out of her in ragged gasps—injured but fighting it.
“It’s just you and me now, dog,” Elyssara taunts. “I know how you like nightmares. How does it feel to stare down your own?” She hurls the words with venom, teeth bared, wrath honed.
She brandishes my sword with efficiency, precision, artistry. Like the sword itself moves and balances at her will. She spins it, taunting Vessira with it.
I stalk behind her, knowing this is her fight.
“I was only ever following orders, Lightborne. Your fight is with Maldrak,” Vessira counters, pleading ignorance and innocence.
“That’s the thing with leashed dogs—they blame their masters for their violent attacks. Never for a heartbeat stopping to think that maybe it’s just the nature of the beast,” she sneers, savage incarnate. “The problem is,” Elyssara bites, circling Vessira like prey, “masters never know when to put their beasts down. I can see a violent beast for what it is, though, Commander.Because I am one.”
Then, she attacks.
She flicks her wrist with unerring accuracy, and the tip of the blade nicks Vessira’s upper arm, blood blooming dark against her armor like spilled ink. Elyssara doesn’t let up, she drives her blade into Vessira’s thigh, tearing a roar from her throat.
She’s not aiming to kill. She’s aiming to maim.
“A swift death wouldn’t teach you anything, dog,” Elyssara pants. “A slow death by a thousand cuts for you.”
Vessira whimpers, doing her best to block and defend. But Elyssara has an edge—vengeance.
The Marked soldiers keep coming, and I cut them down as fast as they rise. But our unit are getting tired. Ronyn picks off soldiers from the nearby ledge, Seren tucked behind him with her crossbow, and Rubi gutting men with her sickle blade between the gaps in the plates of their armor. Morrathys is fading—my shadows barely visible at his hands anymore. Therion cleaves through their ranks with his axe, but he’s exhausted. Jax and Merrik fight valiantly, but Jax won’t be drawing magic from Elyssara—she knows she’ll need it for healing.
We need to go, Duskae. Finish it.I say sharply down the tether, though I know she’s lost to bloodlust.
It’s not enough. She grits out the words, but I hear the raw emotion behind them. She’s breaking. She’s coming undone.
My love, we must go. To keep your friends safe. And you. We’ll come back with an army. This is but a single battle in a larger war. We need to go now.I try to reason, but I can feel her fragility behind her wall of defiance. The way she wants to break.
I can’t.She cries down the tether, though her face is a mask of fury, blood coating her blade.
“Now, Kael!” Therion shouts from the fray. “They’re about to unleash fire-tipped arrows from the battlements!”
Fuck.
I look up to see a handful of men running behind the battlements, arrows in quivers, bows at the ready.
We have sixty heartbeats to get out of here or we’re absolutely fucked.
