Page 48 of Cursed Shadows 4

The clash of metal, the cries, the grunts—I’m reminded of the nearby battle, the one in the shadows of the trees around me.

I reach up for the charred flesh of the tree. My fingers glide over the smooth lightning singe before I tighten my grip. Slowly, I pull myself up, and peer over the edge to the clearing ahead.

A breath cuts through me.

The burly back of a dokkalf faces me. Standing, and very much alive. His black leathers ripple over thick muscle as he hoists up a blood-stained sword. Red blood, crimson,litalf.

Whoever he faces off with is a mystery to me.

This meaty fae blocks my view. But it must be a litalf—and he charges at him.

Sword raised, there are no battle cries or feral shouts that rise up as he leaps over the body of a fallen fae. The body is fresh, eyes glazed and fixed up at the skies, a stream of blood flowing out from his ears, his eyes, his nose.

The dokkalf has forgotten that victim of his.

And he brings his sword down on another.

A clash rings out. A grunt accompanies it. A tired, weary sound of fatigue, and so I know without seeing him that this litalf still standing is on the verge of falling.

I flinch.

The dokkalf chokes on a bloody sound.

He stills, his knees trembling, and—as though the mountain has slowed everything down around me and time just creeps by—his arms drop to his sides.

The sword hits the dirt.

Then the dokkalf crumples.

Fallen onto his side, his face is slack, stunned, and black liquid oozes out from his throat. Anopenthroat, cut right through to the bone, maybe further.

I flick my gaze up at the litalf who took him down.

And my heart swings through me.

His cherry-blossom hair is soaked with blood, red and black, his porcelain face purpling in angry splotches. He staggers around, stealing his face from my view just as another dokkalf rushes at him.

They move slow. Both of them.

It strikes me.

Since they landed here, all those hours ago, they have been fighting, battling, non-stop—until only two are left standing. Barely.

I should creep away.

I should hide from this final breath of battle.

I should turn and sneak from the clearing, go far away, because litalf or dokkalf, it doesn’t matter who survives.

Both are a threat to me.

But I find I can’t move.

I can’t just leave them to fight to their fatigued bones. However long this battle has been going on, it’s long enough that their steps are slow and staggering, their arms weak as they strike out with daggers—

And my heart aches for the litalf.

Because he is my friend.

---