Page 142 of Reaper's Ruin
Then a familiar voice cut through the chaos. “Death!”
I turned to see Sevrin, his wounds leaking shadow but healing fast, unbowed, pushing through the melee. Before I could react, he flung something—not at me, but at Soraya. A bolas weapon,its weighted ends trailing shadow energy, wrapped around her legs, yanking her from my grasp.
She fell hard, crying out as Sevrin dragged her backward across the rough terrain. Rage exploded within me—raw, primal, unstoppable. My vision narrowed to just him.
The man who dared to touch what was mine.
I moved faster than I ever had, my body a blur of shadow and vengeance. He dropped the weapon holding onto Soraya, and she rolled to her knees, struggling to free the grip it had on her legs. My scythe sang through the air, meeting Sevrin’s raised blade with an explosion of purple veil flame. He met me blow for blow, our speed and strength matched with each strike.
“You’re not getting out of here, Death. True death is all that awaits you. And once I kill you, I’m going straight for her.”
I caught her out of the corner of my eye, climbing to her feet as I positioned myself between them. Her eyes met mine, and the look in them—the love—ignited something inside me. A fury hotter than veil fire roared through my veins.
I turned that fire on Sevrin.
He met my first strike with a sneer, blades clashing in a shower of purple sparks. “I’m going to enjoy ending you, Death,” he spat, scythe locking with mine. “I want her to watch you fall. I want her—everyone—to see you’re not the most powerful Reaper in the Shadowveil. That title should be mine.”
He pressed forward, his rage and envy driving his every strike, the purple glow of our clashing scythes lighting the charged air around us.
His technique was admirable. His skill, undeniable. He was strong. Fast. Brutal. Powerful.
But not more powerful than me.
I drove him back with a flurry of savage blows, my scythe an extension of everything I felt—my rage... my love for her... my need to protect what was mine.
I wasn’t just fighting for my life. I was fighting for hers.
Sevrin snarled as he barely deflected a strike that would have ended him. “I won’t let you win. You always got everything—the power, the praise, therespect. But it should’ve been mine!”
His jealousy made him reckless. But I fought with clarity, with purpose.
And I was done holding back.
I struck again and again, each blow fueled by pure violence, pure love. Then I slammed the hilt of my weapon into his gut. “You could never be me, Sevrin. And when I’m done, you’ll be nothing but shadows in the wind—forgotten.”
Sevrin staggered, coughed, but didn’t fall. He twisted low and slashed across my side. The blade bit deep. Shadow spilled from me like smoke.
I didn’t slow.
The pain only anchored me deeper in the fight.
“I was always better than you,” he hissed. “They just neversawit.”
I ducked beneath his swing, spun, and drove a crushing strike into his shoulder. His scythe arm gave way with a sickening crunch.
“They saw you,” I said coldly. “Jealous. Small. Weak.”
With a roar, I surged forward. One blow cracked his scythe. Another shattered it.
His defense fell with it.
Before he could recover, I struck again—my blade cleaving through armor, through shadow-forged flesh, and down to bone black as pressed night.
His eyes widened in disbelief as the killing blow landed.
Shadow burst from the wound like smoke, curling into the air as his form unraveled.
Ending a Reaper wasn’t like destroying a normal soul. There was no flash of light. No pop of release.
