As I glide onward, my heart grows even colder, and my actions feel more distant. The throbbing pain in my left shoulder beats down my arm to the medallion, a constant drip of anger that courses back up to my heart.
I catch the men’s whispers.
“Where is the bitch?”
“We should have killed her years ago.”
“And the Vandawolf. We deserved better than to be ruled by a fucking animal.”
These humans with their false bravado. They’re no better than the smoke I will make of them.
A second and third man are walking side by side directly ahead, their silhouettes becoming clearer as I draw nearer to them. They’re slightly behind the others, which makes them perfect targets.
Still, I’ll need to take them out one by one, which means the others could raise the alarm.
Shadowing their footsteps while I assess their gaits, I calm my breathing and time my attack for the moment one of them looks away from the other, peering into the fog.
“Her body must be up ahead,” he says.
I identify his voice as the one who called me a whore.
As he speaks, my left palm brushes the other man’s lower back. That man’s clothing billows as his body turns to fog, but the weapon at his waist drags the material down faster.
I choose to let the axe fall and it thuds softly onto the ash. Puffs of white dust waft upward around the empty material, but it isn’t my focus.
The man who insulted me swings back. His startled eyes meet mine, but my left palm is pressed to his heart.
“Mist,” I whisper.
His throat visibly constricts as if he wants to make sound, but already, he is nothing more than fine droplets in the air.
His form is gone. His clothing and axe fall to the earth in soft, swooshing thumps.
I’m intrigued to see that the swirling smoke I made of the other two men wafts in the direction of the crater in the earth, as if it’s drawn there.
It probably shouldn’t surprise me since, after all, Blacksmith magic gravitates toward itself.
I return my focus to the remaining men and increase my pace.
They must be proceeding in a tighter group, but their footfalls have stopped. By their voices, I judge their position to be right at the edge of the crater.
“Look at that.”
“What the fuck?”
I can’t be entirely sure if they’ve halted because of the crater’s eerie appearance, although it seems most likely. If they’d heard the falling material of the dead men’s clothing, I’m sure they’d be hurrying in my direction.
I’m still gripping the axe of the first man I turned to smoke.
It’s a strong weapon. A good weapon. The blade is no doubt crafted by the metalworkers while the handle would be fashioned by the carpenters.
I may not appreciate their allegiances, but I can admire their work—and the effectiveness with which I can use it against them.
Just as they used my weapons against me.
With a silent snarl on my lips, I slip through the smoke, abandoning my quiet approach. The men are too close together for me to take them down individually without detection.
I swing the axe at the back of the first one’s neck, my muscles tense, all of my enhanced strength giving me momentum.
