Page 274 of Emylia

I blocked it—barely. The impact jarred through my arms, rattling my bones. He came again, faster, more aggressive. Strike. Block. Parry. Duck.

He was good. But I wasbetter.

I feinted left and caught him open. My blade plunged into his gut. He gasped. I twisted. He dropped.

Another shout.

Another flash of steel.

“Emylia!” Maalikai’s voice—close. Urgent. But I couldn’t look away.

A woman hurtled toward me, blades in both hands. Twin daggers. She moved like a ghost—silent, fluid.

Our blades clashed. She was fast, wickedly skilled.

We danced through blood. She slashed my side—shallow, but enough to burn. I gritted my teeth and countered with a hard elbow to her throat.

She stumbled. I pressed in, slashing low, then high. She blocked. Recovered. Kicked me hard in the chest. I flew back, hitting the floor hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

She charged. I rolled. Came up swinging. Steel met flesh. My blade drove through her chest. Her eyes widened. The breath she tried to take never came.

She crumpled.

I stood panting, blade dripping, hands slick and shaking.

More footsteps.

Five sets.

Five more warriors in black armor poured in through the back.

We didn’t wait.

Maalikai surged forward like a storm, and I followed—not behind, but beside him.

They were fast. But we were faster.

Sharper. Angrier.

Two came for me.

One swung wide, reckless. I stepped inside his guard, plunged my blade beneath his ribs, and ripped it free. He dropped like a stone.

The second met my blade head-on. Steel shrieked. We locked. Grunted. Pushed. He shoved me back, then lunged with a growl. I twisted sideways, grabbed the hilt of my dagger, and buried it in his throat. He staggered.

Dropped.

Behind them—a boy. Barely old enough to be called a man. He slipped in the blood. Fell.

He was young. But they had murderedchildren.

So I didn’t hesitate.

My blade met his chest before he could rise. The breath left him in a single exhale. Gone.

A scream split the air. “That was my son!”

The words came from the man still fighting me. Older. Wild-eyed. Grief soaked every syllable.

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