Page 282 of Emylia

I screamed–raw, feral–a sound torn from the hollow place where fear met fury. But it didn’t stop them.

Three struck.

Then five.

One embedded in his chest.

One in his throat.

One—Gods—through his eye.

He stumbled—but he didn’t fall.

I tried to reach him but warriors closed in, steel flashing in every direction, blood soaking the dirt at my feet.

I was surrounded–trapped in my own carnage. Bodies lay crumpled around me, but more kept coming, stepping over their fallen like they didn’t matter, like death was the goal.

Too many

Too fast.

My arms ached, breath burned, legs staggered beneath the weight of blood–some of it was mine, most of it was theirs.

I twisted. Parried. Slashed. But I couldn’t reach him–couldn’t save my uncle.

His body was failing. I saw it.

And I was helpless.

Gods I was helpless.

Another scream tore from his chest as he kept fighting. Pulling arrows free like thorns, hacking blindly, grunting, snarling like a feral beast.

It took the rest of them to bring him down.

Not one man.

Not ten.

But an army.

They swarmed him like vultures—steel flashing, blood splashing, screams tearing the sky apart. His body buckled. His sword fell. But even as he collapsed to his knees, he tried to rise again.

It took a final blow—clean and cruel—straight through his back to the heart to put him down.

Silence fell.

His body slumped. Face to the dirt. Collapsed at his feet.

My fury imploded.

It wasn’t emotion anymore—it was force.

Pure annihilation.

Magik flared, molten and immediate, tearing through me like a second heartbeat.

My rage wasn’t a feeling. It was a weapon.

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