I slash my way through the enemy, my scimitar covered in chunks of brain and dripping red on the crunching snow beneath my boots. I try to keep pace with her, but she’s vanished from sight, a vengeful chimera leaving only dropping bodies in her trail.
Up ahead, Killian and Aimee move as one, clearing the path with synchronized brutality. They each hold one of Killian’s famed daggers in one hand and shadowy swords in the other. They swirl, block, and attack, decapitating the vermin with terrifying perfection. A creature tries to latch onto Aimee’s back but meets its death at the end of Alnashar. Another attempts to jump on Killian’s, but he ducks low and Aimee sweeps Kadirah with a flourished arc before severing head from body.
The human leaders are behind them, fighting with coordinated movements and shouting commands at their soldiers.
The battle rages on until the very last onpyr sways on its feet, head hanging only by a frayed tendon. It drops dead, and cheers resound from our fighters. We lost a few, but reduced the horde to spilled entrails and torn carcasses. I step over shredded bodies, assessing our casualties with a frown.
This feels too easy.
Too anticlimactic.
No sign of Morweena. Or Noahlin.
No Fae army.
It dawns on me with desperate clarity, and I catch Killian’s gaze darken with the same realization.
A fucking distraction.
“The city,” he bellows, his voice carrying and dousing dread over the premature hoorays. “They’re attacking Drovillan.”
Behind us, black smog rises into the sky, a veil of death and dejection.
My feet carry me at blinding speed to the edge of the forest. Flames consume the gothic spires of Drovillan, agonizing cries growing louder the closer I get.
In the distance, Sangeries is burning to the ground, a mighty symbol of Wrahta crumbling down to ashes before my eyes.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Drovillan burns like a cathedral engulfed in ruin.
Its once gleaming towers cower under black stone slick with ash and heat, and glass-stained windows shatter everywhere, cascading down upon us like jeweled fire. Violet, gold and cyan shards crunch under the bare feet of frightened city dwellers running for their lives. The city’s narrow alleys choke under smoke and bloodshed while the moon becomes just a dim, crimson blur above us.
We thought our forest ambush would squash the threat before it reached the capital, but all we did was leave the city unprotected against Morweena’s sinister plan.
The royal Fae army, covered in heavy iron armors descends upon the cobbled streets, sizzling torches in hand, dragging women by their hair and slaughtering children as if they were inconsequential.
Blood roars in my ears at the sight. It hits a bit too close to home; images flashing before my eyes, of other Fae soldiers razing my village to the ground, killing my family.
We throw ourselves into the open flames, trying to reach the horrified humans caught under rubble, paying the price of collateral damage. I spotEreshkygall hauling women in her arms, carrying them to safety as fights break out in the streets between our warriors and the Fae soldiers.
Another horde of onpyrs comes for us like a tide of nightmares, eyes burning in their sockets with mindless fury. Their jaws move at unnatural angles as they all shriek as one, puppets driven by their horrible master.
“You chose wrong yet again, Akaori. Now bear the consequences. You all die tonight.”
The cacophony of broken voices scrapes against my mind like nails against a chalkboard. I flinch against the urge to cover my ears.
“No,” Aimee’s voice booms above the havoc. “You’re the only one perishing tonight,dear sister. Show yourself.”
“Ah, my pathetic genetic material speaks,” the voices screech with discordant cackles. “You’ll have to come and find me.”
“She’s there,” Killian points toward the castle, a lone figure on the rooftop of Sangeries, like a splatter of black against the blazing inferno.
Aimee breaks into a run, dark shadows blasting from her fingertips, clearing a path between the swarming onpyrs.
“Umbra, wait!” Killian screams before going after her.
I push through the horde, swinging my blade messily, severing heads, detaching limbs clad in polished armor, trying to keep up with them. A delicate hand wraps around my biceps, the scent of jasmine breaking through the cloying smell of burned flesh.
