Page 103 of Claimed In Darkness

To rip through flesh and break through bone and make them regret the moment they ever set eyes on Zephiran Zacria.

By the time the third man hits the dirt, they realize what’s happening.

Finally turn. Finally see me.

That’s when the real war begins.

Shouts ring through the clearing.

Swords scrape free from their sheaths.

Boots thunder against the earth.

There’s no hesitation in my movements.

I duck the first blade, spin beneath the second, drag my dagger across exposed ribs, cut deep, watch the warm spray of blood paint the night.

It is brutal.

It is ruthless.

It is what I was made for.

They come at me in waves, fast and unrelenting, but I am faster.

Smaller.

Hungrier.

The relic inside me thrums, power curling under my skin, twisting through my veins, making me stronger than I should be.

Stronger than them.

The world blurs, every motion sharp and violent, every strike deadly.

I should not be winning.

I should not be this fast, this precise, this fucking unstoppable.

But I am.

Because something inside me is changing.

And I am too far gone to care.

He shouldn’t have needed my help.

He shouldn’t have let himself be taken by surprise.

But he did.

And now he fights with me.

With rage, with fire, with the knowledge that he was fooled, that he was used, that he was played like a fucking puppet by the same hands that once swore they loved him.

We move together.

Not speaking.

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