Page 167 of Cursed Shadows 4

My gaze flickers to the smoke behind Daxeel.

Red creeps through the grey like a river of fire. At first, I think it might be the lingering flames of the explosions.

But then…

A litalf, sheathed in black and crimson, the blood of the battle, creeps out from the smoke—and he lifts his fiery eyes to Daxeel’s back.

A breath catches in my throat—as though I make to shout for Daxeel to look behind him.

But I don’t.

I let the litalf advance. I tell Daxeel nothing about the light warrior sneaking up to his back.

I should run now for the Mother Stone. But even with the circle of defence disbanded around me, the battle bleeding out across the snowfield, I am still surrounded.

Too many litalves charging at the dark warriors around me, to cut their way through them—to get to me.

This isn’t the moment to run for Mother.

I wait.

And my gaze flings back to Daxeel.

He snatches the whip coming down on him. His eyes flare with a dormant rage, of memories stirred, then he yanks the whip from the litalf’s grip.

The light warrior staggers just two steps before Daxeel has whirled a knife through the air—and it strikes into the light male’s temple.

Daxeel’s gaze flips back up to me.

My breath hitches.

The shadows of his dimples darken. He takes a step closer to the battle—closer to the Mother Stone.

I do, too. My boots slide backwards, deeper in the battle surrounding me.

Then my shoulders jerk as a blur of black sweeps by me.

Dare throws himself into a forward flip and lands on the other side of two litalves I didn’t even know were charging at me. He cuts through their spinal cords in one, swift move, a move that might be considered elegant by my dancer mind.

I stumble around, searching the battles for a gap to rush through.

I find Mika, fighting off a burly litalf who looks like he might be absorbing the muscle mass of the dokkalves he takes down. I don’t like her chances. I won’t go near that.

I look to Rune—just as he hits the snow, hard, on his knees. A light female is curved over him, two daggers in her grip and both stabbed deep into the bones of his shoulders.

His shout is hollow.

Samick rushes for him, shuddering through the mist—and I swerve a final glance at Daxeel.

But he doesn’t watch me anymore.

His shadows are curled, tight around the wrists of the redheaded litalf, the one formed of fire and blood who snuck out from the smog.

Daxeel cracks his head into the litalf’s face, over and over and over, each strike spraying more and more blood, more and more fragments of bone.

Distracted, all of them.

Now.

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