Page 281 of Emylia

This wasn’t his end.

Not yet.

His eyes snapped open. Fire blazed where there had been only fading dusk.

“No.” The word wasn’t meant for me. Thrainn growled it like a curse spat into the face of death. “I’m not done.”

With a snarl that defied reason, he shoved me back—blood spurting anew from his gut. He rose. Gods, he rose. Legs shaking. Armor cracked. One arm hanging useless. But his sword—his sword was still in his hand.

“Uncle—!”

“Get behind me,” he barked.

I didn’t move.

He didn’t wait.

He staggered forward, half limping, half dragging his ruined body toward the sound—because there was sound now. Boots. Steel. War cries. Shadows.

More were coming.

Dozens.

An entire platoon poured into the street like a wave of obsidian—black-armored warriors, fresh and hungry for slaughter.

Thrainn stood in the center of the blood-soaked square like a monument to carnage.

And laughed.

He laughed.

“You want me?” he roared, lifting his sword in a single brutal arc. “Come and take me, cowards!”

The first men reached him.

He met them with the wrath of the Gods.

His blade became a blur—desperation and rage woven into every swing. He didn’t block. He didn’t defend. He attacked. Like his body wasn’t failing. Like pain didn’t exist.

One fell.

Then two.

A third.

He roared as he carved through them, blood flying in crimson arcs.

“THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT?” he bellowed, a savage smile breaking through bloodstained teeth.

But then—twang.

The symphony came again.

Arrows.

So many arrows.

A dozen whistled through the air in unison.

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