Page 280 of Emylia

My blade cleaved through the air, catching one warrior mid-strike. Another came low, aiming for my legs. I barely twisted in time—his blade kissed fabric, not flesh. I didn’t hesitate. I yanked a second dagger free and hurled it. It buried itself cleanly between a woman’s eyes.

She dropped. I didn’t look back.

There wasn’t time to care.

Only time to kill.

Maalikai and I got lucky—if anything at this stage could be called luck.

Two came for me, three for him.

We moved like fire and shadow—silent, swift, lethal.

The other seven went for my uncle.

They never stood a chance.

Thrainn was a storm—an ancient, blood-drenched force, forged in violence. A warrior carved from chaos. He met the attack like he’d been waiting for it his entire life. Blades flashed. Blood sprayed. Flesh tore.

He laughed.

Gods, he laughed—a sound so unhinged it sent some of the warriors stumbling back.

“You will not escape my wrath!” he bellowed. “I will end you all!” Spittle flew from his lips as he screamed, his face slicked with blood that wasn’t his.

He was terrifying.

Glorious.

Unstoppable.

Until the bowstrings sang.

The sound came sharp and sure—one, two, three. A cruel symphony. I heard it even before I saw the arrows.

And then—impact.

All three of them.

They struck my uncle mid-kill. He was still gutting a man when they sank into him—his shoulder, his gut, his thigh. His body jerked, blood pouring like wine from punctured skin.

“Uncle!” My scream tore itself from my throat as I sprinted forward.

Too slow.

He faltered just enough.

A warrior slipped in. Then another.

Steel flashed.

Blood gushed.

One sliced his side open. The other drove a blade through his chest. His blood came fast now—thick and furious, pouring over his armor, the ground, their boots.

But Thrainn wasn’t done.

He roared, rising like a dying God, and in one sweeping arc, took both their heads.

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